


Servitum

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [28]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Forced Orgasm, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Restraints, Service Kink, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 18:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20550386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: Steve appears in the hallway, and James turns his head to look at him, doesn't move otherwise. Steve’s in pale blue jeans and a white button down with the four buttons open and his tag chain visible beneath, which is sexy as fuck, but it’s even sexier when he towers over James like this."James?" Steve says, and he's not worried, James can tell. He's on the edge of it, sure - he's bemused, and prepared for something to be amiss - but he's not worried yet, so James closes his eyes for a moment."Help," he says, and then looks up at Steve. "I've fallen and I can't get up."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all. Thanks for your patience with me - my mental health isn't fantastic and I had a severe setback at the beginning of August, which is taking a long time to recover from. Updates will be slower for the forseeable future just because my ability to write has taken a fair hit. I’ll still be updating (hopefully) but it won’t be twice monthly, it might not be monthly at all. The good news is, I’m really happy with the Christmas episode, and I feel it’s a fair place to quit if anyone wants to jump ship now (no hard feelings, I totally understand), given that it’s a nice rounded off ending to Steve and James Becoming-A-Couple. 
> 
> There’ll hopefully be more (lots more is planned, hopefully lots more will get written) but the timescale’s going to change from here on out, and the important worldbuilding’s done for now. 
> 
> For those of you sticking around, this part means that Honey Honey is now **half a million words!** I’m pretty freakin’ pleased, and your support has been, and is, greatly appreciated!  
For those of you heading out, it’s been great having you. And to everybody in here, thanks so much for being here and reading my stuff :D

James’ knees would be fatiguing if he weren’t kneeling on a soft surface, and he trembles because that’s what Steve wants him to do. He may be tiring anyway, but it’s not so quickly that Steve needs to worry about stopping.

“Mmm,” he says as Steve rolls his hips up slowly, and even that’s shaky. 

His hair is up - Steve twisted it into a bun and considered cinching it between the straps of James’ gag so it wouldn’t get in the way, but it’s a good handful to direct his head. Not that James’ head needs direction.

“Shave and a haircut,” Steve says to James’ back, keeping his voice soft, and James shudders.

“Hmmm, hmmm,” he answers - because he can’t speak to say his safeword like this - and then blows a long breath out through his nose.

“Settle down, baby,” Steve says, and it’s difficult to keep his mind on task, but not impossible.

This is new for them - James is almost always facing Steve when they fuck, but _this_ is…

Steve’s always maintained that he doesn’t have fantasies, but his ego isn’t so large that he can’t admit when he’s wrong. Which he certainly feels he must have been, when James does as he’s told and lowers himself down and back, onto Steve’s dick again. James’ fingers twist, beauty blender still held in his right hand, knuckles white, and Steve’s pleased with his handiwork - the cuffs are lined so as not to chafe, supple leather with similar toolwork on them, the lobster clasps strong enough to link them together at the small of James’ back.

James skin is beautiful - smooth and unblemished and milky just because it’s been so long since either of them got any sun, his spine a long, supple line with two gorgeous dimples just above the beautiful, pale, firm double swell of his perfect ass. But his hole stretches wet and red around Steve’s cock as he sinks down, a moan muffled by the gag coming through his nose instead, and Steve uses careful fingertips to rub against the slick, textured flesh to hear him do it a second time.

In future, Steve pulls his brain together enough to think, he might tie James’ hair to his cuffs, or maybe to an anal hook if he’s not planning on fucking him, he’ll have to see. For now, James’ wrists are attached to each other at the small of his back, but not to anything else. Steve figured it might be better this way than throwing James in at the deep end.

James can’t fall, Steve won’t let him, and he wouldn’t usually rely on his own reflexes, except that they’re on the bed and Steve’s bed is huge. James isn’t going anywhere if he falls except maybe face first into the covers - which is laughable because he won’t get that far, Steve will catch him first. James is used to sitting in Steve’s lap with Steve sitting up too, he’s used to having Steve’s shoulders to hold onto, used to having Steve’s chest to lean against. With Steve stretched out on the bed like this, James is nowhere near on his own, but it’s sure gonna feel like it.

Steve reaches out and hooks the fingers of one hand in the strap at the back of James’ gag, the one that goes around the nape of his neck, and then hooks the fingers of the other in the clasps of James’ cuffs, tugs just a little.

"Hmmm," James says, pulling against Steve's grip with a sound that breaks halfway through, "hmmmmm," and it shudders on the way out - Steve can hear the minute change in the way the sound's formed that betrays it for a plea.

"Go ahead, baby," Steve manages, his voice gravel-rough and velvet-dark, his grip tight though his resolve's failing.

James makes another noise - just a noise this time, his ass bobbing up and down, Steve watches it swallow up his cock over and over and over - and he pulls against Steve's grip, body leaning forward, head going back as Steve doesn't let go, back arching as he strains and-

He makes a long, low, grating noise through his nose and Steve feels James' come hit his thigh as James shudders to a stop, pulled tight as far as his body will let him as his muscles spasm around Steve's dick - Steve can _see_ the soft pink pulsing around him and opens his mouth as the pleasure slams into him, trying to hold back. He manages for the time being, but only just, and bites his lip hard a moment later. If he can get a grip and keep it, things’ll be so much better for the both of them.

It's fun for James to come like this, obviously, although Steve will give him a better orgasm in a little while. One of the things Steve loves about bottoming is feeling too much from all directions, so he can completely understand how to give the same thing when he tops - hands-free is never as fun as it is when you get to fuck something. 

James' hips come back and then _snap_ forward again, another spurt of come hitting Steve's thigh as James' breath whistles in through his nose, and he makes a plaintive little noise that Steve feels partway ashamed for liking the sound of so much, his hands in white-knuckled fists as his body shakes under the strain.

_"Fuck,_ yeah, sweetheart," Steve murmurs, and James' hips do it again, back, and then forward, hard, straining - this one's a long one. "You're so good, baby, you're so good."

James circles his hips deliberately this time, with a low moan he's more in control of as his back relaxes again, and Steve's other hand kneads the flesh of James' ass while James gets his breath back.

"You alright?" he rasps, and James nods a bunch - Steve lets the strap slip from his fingers to let him.

"Mmh," he nods, "mmh-hmm, mm-hmmm, mmmh," not words, just affirmations - his free hand makes a thumbs-up.

"Alright, honey, you're doin' so good with the signals, you're so good for me," Steve says, and he uses his abs to sit up without needing to take his hands off James, unhooks James' wrists from each other so they're not linked behind him any more. 

James doesn't bring his hands around, though, holds onto the beauty blender like his life depends on it and starts to turn, Steve's dick still inside him, hands still at the small off his back.

"Ah-ah, hold on. I want you to lie back," Steve says, "I want you to lie back on top'a me, can you do it, your legs okay?"

James nods, cautious, leans back until he can put his hands - one palm-down, the other in a fist still holding the sponge - against Steve's body, and then he unfolds his right leg, dragging it up towards himself until his foot comes free, following with the left a moment later. Steve takes his weight as soon as James' legs are out alongside his own.

"See that?" he says, hooking his arm around James' waist so he can haul James close and scrape his teeth over James' neck. "You know how impressive you are? You didn't even need to get up off my dick-"

James moans softly.

"-you just did what I told you 'cause I told you, huh?" Steve kisses his shoulders, sucks a lovebite against James' shoulderblade.

"Mmmh," James answers, his head turning just a little. 

"That's it, baby," Steve says, and he wraps James in his arms with a jingle of metal tags - he'll lie back in a second, wants to do it fast given that James' whole weight is now keeping him down on Steve.

James breathes hard, says,

"Mh, mh," quietly, but he's not trying to tell Steve anything at this point, they have signals if he needs to say something.

Steve gets both arms around James' waist, wraps his fingers around James' wrists and directs them in front of him.

"Put 'em together, honey," he says, pushing them just a little to reinforce his authority, and James does, puts his wrists together immediately.

Steve doesn't need to see them to clasp them together again, he can do it by feel, and then he hooks one finger in the joined clasps and lifts.

"Can you get 'em over your head?" he says in James' ear, and James does, beauty blender held tight, his other hand in a fist too. "Good, Baby, can you get 'em back over mine?"

James whimpers softly, but tries - he has to arch his back, and stretch his arms to the limit, but he does it. He gets his linked wrists over Steve's head so that, eventually, they rest at the nape of Steve's neck, and James' whole torso is pushed out for Steve to play with.

"How's that feel?" Steve rumbles, and James turns his head to press his covered mouth to Steve's cheek, nodding slowly.

"Mmm-hmm," he says, and Steve kisses his temple, his cheekbone.

"Alright," he says, "we're gonna lie back, I can take you. Just lean against me, we're going down."

And he wraps one arm around James' waist and the other around his shoulders to anchor him, and lowers them both back into the pillows.

James goes with him easily, and Steve’s heart swells with it, how much James trusts him, James has his arms up and bent backward, has his wrists behind Steve’s head while he’s bare from head to toe, and he lets Steve take his weight without even a second thought. By the time they come to rest against the cushions, James is breathing hard again, stretched out on his back on top of Steve, his hands just about behind Steve's head, and he _is_ shaking, Steve can feel him.

"Mmh," he says, "mh," still just sounds, held back by custom leather, and Steve strokes his skin with sweeping motions of his palm, down his flank from his underarms to his thighs, across his stomach, up his torso to the clamps he's wearing. James breathes in sharply through his nose when Steve strokes his hands over them, hips pushing down, back, onto Steve's cock when Steve bends both clamps back back and holds them there, flat against James' chest, stretching the delicate flesh of his nipples. He can do it with one hand if he splays his fingers.

"Yeah?" Steve says because he can't help it. "You like that? Want me to hold 'em there while I _fuck_ you?"

This last he says through gritted teeth, jolting James' body with his own for emphasis, but it's a rhetorical question - he's got to let them go to keep a good grip on James, to stop him slipping.

James makes a couple of little noises, pushes his ass down on Steve's cock a little more, and Steve nods, spreads his legs to spread James' where they're splayed over his own, moving his hands away from where he's pinned the clamps to sweep them down over James' body again. He follows the lines of James’ body, smooths his palms inward, until he's got his hands in the hollows at the tops of James' thighs.

He curls his fingers of the stark lines of James' inner thigh muscles where they’re stretched taught with the spread of his legs, and then starts fucking into him without pause or buildup, taking what he wants because that's what James wants him to do. 

Like this, he's thrusting upward as much as inward, curling his whole body to follow the inside of James' with the thrust of his hips, and James writhes and moans and whimpers on top of him like a fish out of water. Steve will not break James' hips but only because Steve has an amazing grasp of his own strength, which is thankfully second nature by now.

It's loud, though, the slick sounds of the lube, the hollow slap of his hips against James' ass every time he bottoms out, the noises James makes, the jangling of his tags, and Steve can hear his own sounds, too - it's not exactly difficult to take James' weight, but to multi-task when he only wants one thing? It's hard work to say the least.

James is so slick and so open that it's easy, he feels amazing on Steve's dick, little twitches of him on the inside as sweat beads between them on the outside.

"Fuck yeah," Steve grits out, "_f-uck_ yeah," he can picture it, the slide of his dick into James - he'll have to do this in front of a mirror sometime, splay James out and fuck him while James can't look anywhere but at himself.

"Mmh," James answers, his voice jolting with each thrust, _"mm-mh-hh,"_ Steve loves it when the sounds he makes get fragmented just by the strength of what they're doing. 

But it could be better, James could be enjoying himself more, Steve knows, and Steve's more than strong enough to hold James without needing his hands. And so he does, bracketing James' torso with his forearms, putting his hands to better use instead. He grabs for James' cock with his right hand and starts jerking him with each thrust, and James’ knuckles smack into the back of his skull, James’ legs flinch inward, his knees bend, he kicks out with one foot and says,

“Mhhahmmm,” because it’s so loud it moves the leather, and his head lifts and drops again while Steve lets up not at all. 

“Yeah, that’s it, huh?” he says, and James’ body shifts with every thrust but Steve’s got him, Steve’s holding him tight, there’s nowhere for him to go and Steve’s hardly even sorry about how he feels about it. “That’s what you want?”

James just makes little sounds, and his knuckles knock against the back of Steve’s head repeatedly - confirmation he’s still holding his beauty blender - but Steve doesn’t let up, doesn’t want to either.

He’s close, that’s the thing - James has been riding him for a while and Steve made him wait, held himself back and pushed James forward but now it’s fast and hard and James is winding up again, James is almost there.

Steve keeps his forearms in, keeps James held tight, jerks James’ pretty dick with every thrust and manages to get his other hand up just right to get at the first of the two clamps.

James draws a huge, sharp breath in shock, and then _whines_ when Steve removes the clamp and throws it - Steve doesn’t give him a break either, he goes for the second without a pause, and James -

James makes that grating noise again while Steve rubs one abused nipple, while Steve tightens his fingers and jerks him faster, pumping his hips as fast as they’ll go and -

_“Mmmnnnngh!!”_ James groans and his ass pulses on Steve’s dick and clutches at him, and James’ body squirms on top of his and-

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to shove his head back into the pillows, tries to keep his rhythms going as he comes too, tries to make himself a steady place for James to lie but it’s so, God, it’s so hard when he’s-

_“Fuck,”_ he says, it scrapes up the back of his throat, he was gonna press his mouth to James’ skin but his body locked up as soon as orgasm hit and he knows, he can feel, that his skin leaves the mattress which means he’s shoving James upward too, but James is breathing fast and whimpering, and Steve’s spine does something weird that he doesn’t control, and he thrusts up again before he manages to bring them both back down again. 

His body wants to stop and wait, it’s what this does to him - maybe thirty seconds, maybe a minute - but he’s not the priority, and he tries to reel his brain back in enough to figure out what’s next.

James is making shocked, desperate little sounds, and Steve eases the tightness of his fingers a little, slides his fist off James, lets go of his dick so it rests on his stomach, slick and wet.

He flattens his hand on James’ stomach next, arm over James’ chest to anchor him, to keep him still. James’ hands are moving between Steve’s head and the pillow, but he isn’t trying to get away, it’s just his body winding down.

Steve does kiss his face then, between the straps, kisses James’ ear.

“Okay, honey,” he says, soft, strokes James’ skin with his palms, “you doin’ okay, gimme a nod?”

James does, slowly, then tips his head back and bares his throat, heaves a sigh through his nose, and Steve nods, too.

“Okay, baby,” he says. “You get outta those cuffs?”

James lets go of the beauty blender - Steve feels it roll underneath the nape of his neck - fingers fumbling for a moment or two. James’ hands are shaky - they’re both high on endorphins right now - but Steve designed the things for safety and James gets the clasps open a moment later, winces as he lowers his arms.

“Go slow, baby, slow, it’s okay,” and James does, lowers his arms until his arms are crossed over his chest, over Steve’s arm where he’s still holding James steady. “Okay, sweetheart, it’s okay, just rest a second. Okay? When you’re ready.”

James nods minutely, his head turns a little towards Steve, his hair an itch on Steve’s shoulder. 

When he lifts one hand again, it’s tired, his forearm drags over Steve’s face but Steve doesn’t mind, and he sets about fumbling with the strap on the crown of his head. They’re big straps, the buckles thick, just for this reason - and the buckle comes open soon enough.

He doesn’t bother with the second - without the first, the gag slips down just as easily as a sleep-mask would slip upward, and he says,

“Nguh,” as it comes free, wets his lips and then puts his arm back down, turns his head for a kiss.

They both have to crane their necks for it, but then James is dropping his head back over Steve’s shoulder while they both gasp for breath. Steve’s softening, he’ll slip out of James pretty soon, and so lying right where they are is a good enough plan for the time being.

“Fuck a canopy,” James gasps. “Y’oughta get mirrors.”

It takes Steve’s brain a few moments to catch up but, when he does, he huffs a laugh. 

“You okay?” he says.

“Yeah,” James breathes. “Yeah, I’m…way better than okay.”

Steve nods, eyes closed for just a moment as his dick leaves the heat of James’ body.

“We’re goin’ left, okay?” he says, and he waits for James to say yes before he turns them both.

He’s careful about it, still bracketing James’ body with his arms until James can get pretty much in recovery position in front of him, and then he gets his one arm out from under James and slides the other over James waist, pulls him close. 

He lets go momentarily, just to get the buckle at the back of James’ neck, and James starts to unbuckle the leather cuffs Steve made him for Christmas. 

“Mmh,” he says, as Steve pulls the gag away, and then Steve rolls back to put it on the nightstand, and shifts on the mattress.

“Okay,” he says. “Come here onto your back for me,” and James does, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling, and then at Steve when he realizes Steve’s propped himself up on an elbow to look at him.

“Hmm, hi,” he says, languid smiling stretching his bruised lips. 

“Hi, baby,” Steve answers, and he slides his hand onto James’ cheek, thumb rubbing the strap-line imprinted into his skin. “Hi.”

He can see the perfect negative of the gag - the imprint of the outline of the rectangle over the lower half of his face, the imprint of the straps, the imprint of the rivets, like dimples, either side of his mouth.

“Tha’w’s pretty good,” James says, and Steve runs his fingers over James’ cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Yeah?” Steve murmurs, and James nods.

“Mmm, yeah,” he says. “You can kiss me now.”

Steve smiles, nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright.”

***

"You've been quiet," James says, and Steve looks back at him over his shoulder from where he’s making coffee.

It's Saturday - the ninth of January - and nobody's really that worried about an attack this time of year. If it didn't happen on the first, it gets less and less likely to happen with every passing day. Sure there are disasters and accidents, and you can't tar everyone with the same public holidays - there are dates that are important to individuals that have nothing to do with public and/or religious occasions. But, in general, if nobody showed up in a cape on top of a skyscraper when the ball dropped (or any time on the first of January, yelling whichever equivalent of "happy new year _this_, bitches!" they happened to consider the perfect bon mot), nothing much is likely to crop up now until Valentine's day, and that usually revolves around misuse of magic and general bad ideas about how to impress a potential love interest anyway.

(Seriously, if Steve has to deal with one more asshole in spandex waxing lyrical about 'doing this to prove their undying love' - how does killing a subway car full of disgruntled New Yorkers equate to a box of fucking chocolates? Also, good luck killing a subway car full of disgruntled New Yorkers before they kill you, but whatever.)

Valentine’s is a little optimistic, of course. According to the information gathered by Jarvis, the most likely candidate for something happening is Blue Monday - and the data suggests that that one's mostly self-fulfilling when it comes to supervillains with tragic backstories anyway. _'Woe is me my girlfriend didn't want to put up with my terrible eating habits and my boss didn't want to put up with my terrible work ethic, so New York must pay for not understanding how brilliant I truly-' _

Yawn. 

But Steve’s not on duty then so good luck, Rotation Three.

But that's put them here - midday, after some truly fantastic sex, during which Steve maybe got way more aggressive than he tends to like. It was a surprise to him, that much is certain, and James didn’t object at the time. In fact, he’s pretty sure James didn’t object because James was enjoying himself, but that sort of spontaneous…vindictiveness almost, he’s not used to feeling that. Certainly not used to feeling it without warning. 

James was fine, is fine. 

And it’s not as though Steve _meant_ it when he was being heartless, it’s just that usually it’s an active choice.

"Yeah," he says, eventually. "I was just thinkin' about before."

James frowns, cocks his head.

"You mean _Before_ before?"

Capital 'B,' meaning anywhere from 1918 to 1945. But that's not what Steve means - not this time anyway.

"Nah," he says, and jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom. "Little 'b,' just this morning."

James goes pink, and looks very pleased with himself - and well he should, he was incredible.

"Oh?"

And Steve thinks about trying not to screw his face up, but he doesn't like lying to James and so he doesn't try to, showing his true colors instead. Which are concerned.

"I got a little," he says, tilts his head left and right. "Uh."

"Aggressive?" James says, smirking - oh it's a _smirk_ now, what does he want, another round? "Domineering?"

"Vicious, I was gonna say," Steve answers.

"That's funny," James says. "I don't have any marks, I don't have any psychological scarring…?"

Steve purses his lips. 

"I don't know," he says. "That whole…I mean…I've seen people saying it. You know? 'Fucking take it bitch' and all that stuff, but it's not usually what I go for. And I know it's not usually what you go for."

"I don't mind being told to take it," James answers, crossing the room to him. "And I don't remember you calling me 'bitch'."

"Ah, you know what I mean," Steve says, and James reaches him, wraps his arms around him.

"I do," James says. "And I disagree. You were more sweary than usual, that was cute."

_"Cute?"_

"And you told me to take it. But, y'know, newsflash, I already was, so-"

"James-"

"-you really weren't telling me to do anything I didn't want to do, what, what is it?"

Steve shrugs one shoulder, looks around, and then looks at James.

"I…I got aggressive," he says. "I wanted to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," James says. “I enjoyed what you did, I’d do it again, and I’m unharmed and happy.” Steve’s chest eases a little - he hadn’t realized how tight it was. Then James grins. "That was nothing. Remember you once spanked my actual asshole for making you go all nipply in public. I like Steve in Charge,"

"Don't," Steve says, but it's too late - James starts singing 'Charles in Charge' but with 'Steve' in place of 'Charles.'

_"Steve, Steve in Cha-"_

Steve kisses him and then kisses him again.

"Shut," kiss, "up," kiss, "shut," kiss, "up," kiss, "stop it stop it-"

James laughs, squirms, pushes against Steve's chest and tries to get away, starts singing again and Steve gets his tongue in James' ear instead - he tastes of soap, it could be worse.

"Oh my god!" James pretends to yell. "Get off me! I'm being eaten alive-"

"I could eat you alive," Steve tells him, and James snorts, and then laughs.

"No, you're not making this sexy," he says. "I won't let you, you're not allowed - _Who's strong and bra-"_

Steve snatches (picks) him up and marches (carries) him to the couch, and then throws him (puts him down) on the couch, and then pins him there.

"You always do this," Steve says, narrowing his eyes as he fights a smile. "What is it with you, you like losing?"

James raises one perfect eyebrow.

"Take a look where I am and tell me I lost."

Steve draws a long, slow breath.

"Touché," he says, and James snorts, rolls his eyes.

"It's pronounced 'tushy,'" he lies, "and listen, I like pushy you and quiet you. I like domineering you. Commander you. Cold you, tired you, happy you."

"I know," Steve says, "and I know if you don't like something you'll tell me, just sometimes I like to hear it."

"If I don't like something, I'll tell you," James says. "And this morning was amazing, oh my god - I don't think I've ever been in the position before, like, I've never dated anyone who could hold me like that. And man, those cuffs are really-"

"You like 'em?"

"-strong but they're- fuck yeah, I do! They're really soft and they're strong and I can reach the, uh, the clasp things-"

"Whaddya want next?"

"-are really good but they're easy to- what, seriously? Steve, I've got like, like, are you trying to make me a whole set or something?" 

There's a silence that stretches, and Steve looks at James carefully. 

"That…oh wow, that's the plan, isn't it?" James says, and then laughs. "Man, took me long enough. What do you mean, what do I want next?"

Steve shrugs, a little unsure now - if James didn't realize he was trying for the whole set, he may not be as enthusiastic, and Steve will have to bear it in mind if he-"

"What more _is_ there?" James says but that…oh, _that's_ a tone Steve can work with.

"Your ankles, for a start," he says, curling his hand around one because it's close now they're sprawled on the couch. "Cuffs for them, too, buy you a spreader bar. Posture collar if you want, make you a crop," he leans close, "a flogger," enunciates clearly before he kisses James' jaw, "a blindfold," he says against James' ear.

"So that's like Valentines, Easter, my birthday, your birthday," James answers - because he's got a smart mouth - but he's a little breathless now, too. "What'll you get me for Christmas?"

Steve kisses him - properly this time, too close (just right) and too hard (see previous).

"Ingrate. January ninth and you're asking me about Christmas," Steve says. "How about a harness so I can tie you up and spread you open and keep you right where I want you?"

James has gone _very_ pink now, is breathing quite hard.

"But, I mean, that's the point of the cuffs though, right?" he says, and Steve laughs, drops his head to James' chest for a second.

"Alright, you win." And then he lifts his head again. “Hey, I love you.”

James nods, goes from simmering arousal to warm affection in the same amount of time it takes Steve.

“Love you too,” he says, and then he reaches up and puts his hands in Steve’s hair, messes it up deliberately. “Much better.”

Steve pulls back too late, runs his own fingers through it as though that’s going to help _now_, and says,

“Ugh, who _raised_ you?” while James laughs.

***

By early afternoon, James is pretty pleased with the way his morning has gone. The pretty lines the leather made on his face have faded. It’s just as well - who knows who’s going to stop by? - but he’s still a little disappointed. Like the rope marks on Steve’s thighs after James tied him up that time, James liked the half hour or so he could look at his reflection and see Steve’s handiwork on his skin, and he slides his fingers over his wrists as he remembers how his new cuffs felt.

So he makes a decision. It doesn’t take him long, he’s been thinking about it for a while. And then he has to decide how to go about it.

"What are we doing?" James asks, but he's only half listening, because he's hoping he's about to make that decision for them. 

Most of what Steve has done recently are things that Steve considers things done for himself. James says things like 'thank you for coming with me for Christmas,' and 'thank you for my beautiful gifts,' and 'thank you for indulging yet another one of my fantasies' - he's got a lot, okay, and can you blame him when his partner is _Steve Rogers mmh_ \- Steve will say things like 'thank you for inviting me' and 'they're for both of us' and 'aw shucks I enjoyed myself too' or whatever.

So, instead, he pulls out something he's been keeping to himself a while, because Steve's turn on duty ended last night and they spent last night and this morning having rampant kinky sex, and that means their afternoon is their own. 

Steve is talking about packing up, looking through a couple of files and pulling a couple of projects together - he's got artwork here, too - and James considers what he wants to do.

Steve's affection can be huge, almost palpable. His desire to take care of James can be overwhelming. But James can't think of a point so far where Steve's been overwhelming that he hasn't enjoyed immensely - and if they can roleplay some lifelong memories out of a spanking session, a shibari tutorial, and a carefully lit table, he's pretty sure providing Steve with the opportunity to do something he may not even be aware of wanting should go down a treat, and make for a pretty awesome afternoon. Plus, James then has Sunday to recover. 

"I don't have any plans after that," Steve says, from the general vicinity of the bedroom, and James bites his lip, thinks very hard about what he wants to do. 

If he makes it look real, Steve might worry, and that's not what he wants. If he doesn't convince Steve, Steve won't do it, and that will negate the whole thing, So James settles for middle ground, and lies in the middle of the space of open carpet between the living room furniture and the hallway to the other rooms.

He lies flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling in a way that isn't uncomfortable but also doesn't look like he's fallen and hit his head.

"So I was thinking, we could probably head back to the conversion," Steve's voice gets louder as the moments pass, his footsteps approach, "and I can either make us something up or we'll get takeout, depends on…"

Steve appears in the hallway, and James turns his head to look at him, doesn't move otherwise. Steve’s in pale blue jeans and a white button down with the four buttons open and his tag chain visible beneath, which is sexy as fuck, but it’s even sexier when he towers over James like this.

"James?" Steve says, and he's not worried, James can tell. He's on the edge of it, sure - he's bemused, and prepared for something to be amiss - but he's not worried yet, so James closes his eyes for a moment.

"Help," he says, and then looks up at Steve. "I've fallen and I can't get up."

Steve frowns down at him, surprised - James can see that, too - and his mouth opens slowly, his gaze doesn't waver. 

"You can't get up?" he says, skeptical.

"That's right," James tells him. "I'm so tired and overworked, every little thing I do feels like a huge decision I have to make."

Steve has gone very still, has seemed suddenly to be full of shadows, like the dark corner of a firelit room, glowing embers in his eyes.

"Words."

"Eggs Benedict, Charlie," James says. 

Steve nods.

"Tell me again," Steve says, and his breaths come faster, his eyes have grown darker, his shoulders are broader, he's lifted his head.

"Help me," James says. "Please."

Steve wets his lips, nods, and then leans down and just…lifts James off the floor.

"I've got you," he says, cradling James to his massive chest while James does his best to stay limp, "I'll make sure you don't gotta worry about any little thing."


	2. Chapter 2

Steve carries James to the bedroom with those long, sweeping strides of his. James is not jostled or shifted, James doesn't have to hold on tight, he can just lie there, carried, supported, until Steve puts him down on the bed, on which the covers are already pulled back to air them - Steve really did mean to leave for the conversion.

"I can get pretty intense," Steve says as he arranges James' limbs in…a way that's really comfortable actually. 

"I know," James says, "I've met you."

"Yeah," Steve tells him, and opens his mouth to say something else, but James shakes his head.

"You know, I listened," he says and, when Steve frowns down at him, he says, "when you told me everything you told me. About how you used to hold onto people so tight you'd stifle them trying to love them too much."

Steve stares at him, perhaps a little taken aback, glances aside.

"Uh," he says, and James doesn't move - he makes it a point not to move. 

He stays where Steve put him.

Steve clearly thinks about it for a long few moments, running it over in his mind. But the thing is, James has given his words, has reiterated his consent, and has reminded Steve that Steve's already told him about this.

"Then unless I hear otherwise," Steve says, and then he pauses, licks his lips - he really does like this, James realizes. He doesn't just want this for James' comfort, it actually turns him on to do it, this actually does it for Steve, "you don't do a single thing for the rest of the day. I'll do it for you."

"Presumably you'll let me use the bathroom," James says, smiling, and Steve doesn't smile.

Steve looks about five seconds away from tearing the clothes off James' body. 

"Unless you want to shave or brush your teeth," Steve tells him, voice low. 

James' stomach drops.

Oh wow, okay. So like literally everything, that's fine. James can do that.

"So I'm," he says, checking, making sure where Steve's wants lie. "I'll be like a doll?"

"You'll be like mine to please however I choose," Steve answers. "You can move if you want to move. You can tell me what you want if I ask. Or you can decide not to tell me and, if you don't tell me, _I'll_ decide."

"What if you don't ask?" James says, and then laughs. "Sorry," he says - he already knows the answer. "You always ask." 

And Steve's satisfied with that. James has already given his words. So here they are, really.

"So," James says, languishes on the bed. "What's first?"

"Whatever I want," Steve answers. "If that’s what you want.”

James wets his lips, looks Steve over, and then finds Steve’s gaze with his own again. He nods shortly.

“That’s what I want.”

Steve seems to grow taller somehow, broader. 

“Good,” he says. “So, given that you won't be doing anything today, you don't need to dress for anything. Don't tense up."

James opens his mouth wide on a grin, laughs to himself, and Steve's eyes sparkle as he leans down over James. 

He undoes James' shirt buttons first - not seductively, not slowly, but as though he were undressing himself. He starts at the top and works his way down, opens James' fly to get the shirt out of his waistband. 

He takes off James' socks and puts them in the laundry basket, he removes James' trousers by lifting his hips and then each leg in turn. He sits down on the bed next to James, then leans over him, then slides his big, warm hands around James' waist and under his back between his skin and his shirt, all the way up to James' shoulderblades. Then, like a child, he lifts James' upper body from the bed and folds him forward, almost into an embrace, so that they're chest to chest.

He eases the shirt from James' shoulders and he's about to put him back again when James tries turning his head into Steve's throat to see what he does. 

Steve stops what he's doing straight away, and holds him instead. One hand on the back of James' head, the other stroking long, soothing lines down James' spine and back again, he just sits, holds, waits. James doesn't want to derail everything before they've even started, he's one hundred percent certain Steve has a plan to follow. So, when Steve has held him for a minute or so, though James really doesn't want to move, he turns his head. Steve reads it correctly and lets go of him gradually, sliding his hands into position again instead of lifting them, so that he draws warmth in the wake of his touch instead of forcing a shock of cold by his actions.

James knows he's good, but it never makes _how_ good any less impressive.

Steve settles him back down into the bedclothes, holds him there a few moments so that their body heat warms the bedclothes enough for that to be an equally easy transition, and then draws his palms back, goes for James' underwear. He makes short work of them, just like he did with James' trousers.

“You’ll be eating first,” Steve says, “if you’re hungry.” 

“Uh,” James says, but it only takes him a few seconds to realize that he is, mouth watering just at the implication of getting food. “Yeah. Yes?” He’s not sure how to answer - should he be calling Steve ‘sir’? “I- Yeah.”

Steve turns his head slowly and looks at James. He looks almost as fuzzy as James feels, his brow smooth, his mouth closed. 

“I’m going to feed you,” he says. 

James nods, glances aside for a moment, and tries to think like someone who’s used to this. He thinks about the videos he’s seen online, thinks about the things Steve’s said to him in the past about taking care of people. It’s strange.

“What will you feed me?” he says, and Steve’s expression softens a little, a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Sandwiches,” he says. “I don’t have anything else.”

James nods, that sounds fair. And enjoyable. They’ve got bread that Steve made, they’ve got things to put on that bread - sandwiches will be more than enough for lunch. 

“Next time I’ll tell you in advance,” he says, and Steve - -

James doesn’t know what it is. He can’t tell what’s changed, only that something has. The smile still pulls at the corner of his mouth, his expression is still soft, but it’s almost as though he’s frozen, as though something’s shocked him into stillness. It’s James, James realizes - Steve must not have expected to hear about a ‘next time,’ and even that strikes James as pretty amazing.

Here’s Steve, enjoying the only fantasy he’s ever directly mentioned to James, taking care of him to the extent that he’s fully prepared never to get another chance to enjoy it.

“Wait and see how you like it first,” he says eventually, and James nods.

“Okay. I want a kiss,” James says, feeling bold about it - if Steve’s meant to be taking care of him, it’s worth saying something, right?

Steve looks at him for a long few moments and then leans down over him, hands either side of him, brings his head down to James without touching him.

He searches James’ face with his gaze, lifts one hand to settle it on James’ stomach, and James knows they’re on the bed, he knows they’re in Steve’s regular apartment (their regular apartment, right?), but already it feels like there’s nothing else left in the rest of the world. 

Steve’s breath is warm against James’ cheek, his hand a warm weight on James’ stomach, and his body is a shield against the rest of the world

“Hm,” James says, and Steve turns his head, so that James doesn’t have to raise his own from the pillow, and then brushes his lips over James’.

It’s not a kiss, not really. He does it again a moment later, and his lips are so soft, the tip of his nose brushes James’ cheek. James can feel him breathing, James can smell his skin, James’ hands are still open and he curls his fingers into his palms so as not to grasp for Steve’s clothing.

Steve makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and James is so close that he can’t focus on Steve’s freckles, can’t make out the hairs in his eyelashes. But he sees them sweep down a moment before he closes his own eyes, and then…

Then Steve kisses him, soft and slow. He parts his lips but does little else for the first few seconds, just a press of his mouth to James’, and the he breaks the kiss, too, makes it small and almost chaste before he comes back for another, does the same thing again before he draws back.

James opens his mouth the third time, and Steve pulls back immediately.

“No,” he says, and James’s eyes open when he figures it out.

“Huh?” he says, just a quiet, but disappointed.

Steve kisses him one last time, sucking James’ lower lip into his mouth as he pulls away. 

James almost levitates off the bed, the instinct to follow Steve strong as it always is. Steve just smirks down at him, flicks the sheet up over his hips before tugging it out from under the mattress, and then moves, turns, slides his arms under James.

“Alright,” he says. “Time for you to eat.”

~

A bridal carry is easy for Steve, and so is taking James to the kitchen. James is no burden, not to the serum. He’s thrown comrades in fights, picked enemies up and dropped (or drop-kicked) them, he’s lifted crashed vehicles and twisted metal beams and blocks of concrete and - on one very memorable occasion - a small aircraft. James is featherlight, James is a pleasure to hold. James is easy, Steve could carry him for the rest of their lives.

Instead of spending the rest of the afternoon with James in his arms, he walks them to the kitchen, stopping by the sink. He checks the surround for water, of which there isn’t any, and then moves James in his arms, questing hands ensuring there’s going to be no bare skin to touch cold countertop (Steve happens to know that cold counters on bare ass are a bitch). Once he’s sure, he turns, lifts James just a little, and sits him down there on the counter between the refrigerator and the sink. New York is cold and dreary outside behind him, but it’s warm inside their apartment, and the lights are bright and welcoming. 

Steve goes to the bread bin and fetches the two hardly-eaten loaves of bread, retrieves the butter from the refrigerator. He pulls out jars of condiments, the few jars of dubiously-labeled ‘spreads,’ and starts rifling through what he owns to find the best fillings he can think of. There are a couple of seasonal pâté containers, and a few seasonal chutneys, but all he really has is the usual, and he frowns at the inside of his refrigerator. It’s not good enough. Not for James. 

“Right,” he says. “We have the usual. You’re starting small. What’s first?”

“Uh,” James answers, and Steve looks back over his shoulder.

James looks like something out of a Michaelangelo or a Tintoretto, young and lithe and naked but for an artfully placed sheet. He sits by the window and watches Steve, his hair in wisps about his face, and Steve ought to paint him properly at some point, he really ought. 

“Can,” he says. “May…Uh, S- St- Uh.”

He’s lost, and Steve can’t blame him, not really. If he’s honest with himself, they rushed into this. He should have set out rules, discussed his intentions, made it easier for James to know what he can and can’t do because the answer, really, is that James can do whatever he wants. Steve straightens up and looks at him.

“You,” he says, “can…” he shakes his head, plants his hands on his hips. “Call me whatever you want. If. There’s no- It’s not formal. James. It’s not formal.”

James lifts his head slowly, his brows still knitted, but he cocks his head and looks over Steve’s shoulder, at the refrigerator.

“Right,” he says. “Then…Steve. Uh, we got any’a that duck and orange cranberry stuff?” He gives Steve a secretive kind of smile, chews his lower lip for a moment. “I really liked that stuff.”

Steve huffs a laugh, looks at the piece of artwork sitting pretty on his kitchen counter, and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “You can start with that.”

He picks up three eggs and the cranberry-duck-orange pâté, and taps the refrigerator door shut with his foot as he turns back. He decides to grab an onion, too, and the griddle pan - he’s going to do lunch small but he’s going to do it fancy, too, so he might as well go the whole hog. Logistics. This is what he’s good at.

The first thing he does is sharpen his bread knife. He keeps it sharp because, years ago, Natasha berated him for not carrying knives. They’d had a whole discussion about it, gone back and forth for a long while, until she’d said that he at least had access to sharp implements, at which point she’d grabbed for his paring knife, then his chef’s knife, and then his breadknife with increasing incredulity, and asked him in Russian what the fuck he thought he was doing keeping blunt knives to hand.

That was back when he’d been learning Russian, so he hadn’t caught the whole tirade, but he got the gist. She bought him a knife sharpener and a whetstone after that, and he kept his kitchen knives sharp. The whetstone had been one of those self-serving things - he’d never used it but, even now, she’d sometimes spend a quiet afternoon in the kitchen with her blades and his whetstone. 

But it means that he sharpens his knives now, not least because he’d still been a little vague when he’d started cooking, and prone to catching his fingertips on bad days. The cuts from blunt knives take longer to heal than the cuts from sharp ones, plus it’s always nice not to have to saw away at a poor, helpless, sagging tomato. 

And it means that he’ll be able to cut very nice, precise slices of fluffy, white bread from the loaves he made a day or two ago.

He takes a step back and thinks for a moment before he goes ahead, reassessing the order he wants to do this in - the plates he’s looking for are in with Natasha’s teacups, although he doesn’t use them nearly as often. They’re square, which means they’re perfect for tea sandwiches. Which is what he’s decided on - small, clean, James can eat the first lot himself and Steve will hand feed him the rest.

He grabs the plate from what’s essentially Natasha’s cupboard, making a mental note to discuss the cupboard’s existence with James at some appropriate point in the near future, and sets it on the counter next to James. James looks at the plate, and Steve doesn’t explain - he just acts instead.

Turning on two rings of the stovetop and putting one pan on each takes no time at all, butter in one, the eggs in cold water on the other, and that leaves him free to slice the onion. He knows he can take it easy but it’s far, far more satisfying to do it properly - the way he learned from the tutorials on YouTube - because he knows how good it looks when he can chop an onion like a professional chef. 

James makes an impressed kind of noise, high pitched and interested, and Steve flashes him a grin - he’s aiming for ribbons, because they’ll cook faster, and he throws a piece into the oil to check how hot it is.

“Onions?” James says, and Steve nods. 

“Yeah.”

He turns the heat right up on the eggs, and then pulls the salt grinder and the sugar jar towards him.

James is clearly biting back a smile as Steve unscrews the sugar jar with a flourish, and then Steve starts actually paying attention to what he’s doing. Salt and sugar on the onions, a dash of water and some Worcestershire sauce, and then all he has to worry about is stirring.

“Can I just eat the onions?” James says, and Steve knows exactly what he means.

Sam told him, very very early on, if you’ve got guests who are hungry, fry an onion while you cook. The smell alone will keep everybody happy. Still though, he is actually making the onions for James to eat, so he stirs them just to get them going.

“What are you making?” James says.

And, for a moment, Steve debates about telling him. If he does, it’s not a problem - it’s not a secret. But still, he’s taking care of James today. He knows what James likes and doesn’t like, has a reasonable idea of what James wants and doesn’t want. He could tell him.

But then, he hasn’t told him anything so far beyond the basic ideas, and he prefers being able to intuit. He considers that it’s perhaps a little selfish, but he likes James not knowing. He likes being the only one aware of the plan, likes the look on James’ face when Steve surprises him. 

“Onions,” he says, and James’ eyebrows go up.

He leans backwards a little, and then smiles, shakes his head as he covers his mouth with his hand.

“Okay,” he says, nodding. 

Steve picks up the sharpener and spends a few seconds sharpening his bread knife. It doesn’t take much - Nat’s sharpener is a good one - and then he grabs the white loaf of bread.

He does quite well at making the slices even, and the loaf was a reasonable size to begin with, and he sets out the two nicely-proportioned-though-he-does-say-so-himself slices, and butters them, because he’s a firm believer that butter makes everything better. Then he piles the pâté on nice and thick, the way James likes, and sees James wiggle happily out of the corner of his eye, but he’s not done. 

He takes the crusts off the bread which, if he’s being perfectly honest, feels like a travesty - store-bought? Sure. Homemade? Sacrilege. 

But he’s making tiny, dainty sandwiches for his sweetheart, sue him. He cuts the sandwich into fingers. Once he’s got four of them, he cuts them in half the other way and plates them, plucking two cranberries and a piece of orange peel off the top of the pâté to put on top of them. Then he slides the plate towards James, and sucks the small smear of pâté off the pad of his thumb.

“Eat them slowly,” he says. “There won’t be more for a while.”

Because it’s true. For a start, he has to make them first and, considering how little he has and how much he’s going for, it’s going to be a long wait.

“Okah,” James answers, already on his first one, and Steve snorts, raises one eyebrow at him and unhooks a saucepan and a frying pan from the rack.

This, this part, is easy.Astonishingly so. Today is a day he doesn’t have to worry about overstepping with the control, doesn’t have to concern himself with holding back. It’s not exactly that this is what he’d do every day if he could, more that he can go as big as he wants and not have to worry about whether it’s too far. And cooking is something he could do all day, every day. It’s easy - it’s putting things together in order and watching them come together to make something. 

It’s a different part of his brain, that does it all for him.

He cuts the next two slices of bread, also white, and then fetches a bowl, a fork, the mayonnaise. He grabs the cheddar and the Parmesan from the fridge and the slicer from the utensil drawer, and sets them all down.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” James says. “Can I have some cheese?”

Steve laughs, sets both hands on the counter and shakes his head, can feel how big the smile is on his face as he looks at James.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess you can have some cheese.”

Steve cuts him a piece from the block of cheddar and then starts shaving slices from it, piling them up on the edge of his cutting board. But, not satisfied with his chunk apparently, James nabs a slice within a few seconds.

“Slancing?” Steve says. 

James blinks, cheese slice halfway into his mouth.

“What?” he says.

“Sla- uh,” oh right, that’s one of Peggy’s. “Slancin’. Takin’ food while somebody’s still puttin’ it together. Like…” he tries to think of another example. “Like takin’ a chocolate chip while I’m makin’ cookies.”

James pushes the rest of the cheese slice into his mouth.

“I gonna get cookies?”

“You’re gonna get somethin’ else in a minute if you ain’t careful,” Steve says, smiling and James goes pink over the bridge of his nose but smiles, conceding.

Still, he wets his lips and picks up his next finger of sandwich, bobbing his eyebrows as he eats it.

“Yeah, you eat your sandwiches as sexy as you please,” Steve says, “but I catch you slancin’, there’ll be consequences.”

“Oh no,” James says, and Steve rolls his eyes and stirs the onions.

“Pft, have as much cheese as you want, I’ll spank you later if you ask real nice, how ‘bout that?”

James chuckles around his sandwich.

“Please, Sir, may I have some more,” he says, and Steve can feel the heat creep up the back of his neck into his ears.

This is immensely unfair of James, especially when Steve has a plan that doesn’t involve sex for a least the entire duration of a hand-fed meal. Or or an orgasm, the two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive depending on your definition. 

“Behave,” he says, but he lets a little of the Commander creep in, and James giggles. 

Actually giggles.

But he also does as he’s told. 

The eggs start to boil, and Steve glances as them as he hears the bubbles.

“Jarvis, could you give me a six minute ten second timer, please?” he says.

_“Of course, Commander.”_

“Thank you. James, do you need anything to drink?”

James is silent for a few moments. Well, sort of - Steve can hear him chewing. And then he says,

“Apple juice?” like a question.

“Oh God,” Steve mutters - he’s got no idea. “Uh. Jarvis, where's the nearest apple juice?”

_“There is apple juice available in the refrigerator in the common floor's kitchen,”_ Jarvis says. _“It will be with you shortly via conveyance AI.”_

“Converyance AI?” James asks as Steve answers Jarvis.

“Thank you, Jarvis. Yeah, one of Tony’s lab bots. You ever seen one of those?”

“You mean besides on websites and in magazines?” James says. “No! I didn’t know he still had them, that’s great!”

“Oh yeah,” Steve says as he nods. “They’re not objects, not really, they’re more like pets. They can recognize us, too, so they’re pretty cute.” He looks at James. “He can’t see you, though, that’s not how he works. There are…sensors…”

James shakes his head, waves a hand.

“No, it’s fine,” he says. 

Steve smiles at him, but then his mind slides sideways. 

Lunch is going to take a while, really, and James could probably do with something else. He’s not sure what he has but…maybe he can get started on dessert? Oh, except,

“I only have Christmas chocolates for dessert,” he says, “unless you’re willing to sit on the counter for the next hour and a half while I bake something?”

“Depends what the something is,” James says. “Cookies?”

“You and your cookies.”

“Cinnamon buns?”

Steve laughs, gives the onions a stir because they’re starting to stick - good, that’s what he wants. 

“I’ll make ‘em if you want ‘em, honey, but I’m not gonna have you sit there until they’re done."

James shakes his head.

"It's fine," he says. "I don't need dessert for lunch."

Steve sticks his tongue in the corner of his mouth for a second, but he nods a moment later. He trusts James to tell him.

How’re your sandwiches?” he says instead.

James is smiling at him, half a sandwich in his hand.

“Pretty good!” he says, “the bread’s amazing.”

Steve smiles, shakes his head.

“Flattery?” he says. “You know me better than that.”

But it’s a lie, they both know it, and James leans forward a moment later.

“It’s gorgeous,” he says. “It’s almost as delicious as you look, and I bet you can only do it so well because you’re so talented-”

Steve puts the spoon down and rushes over and grabs James’ head in his hands, kisses him as James makes a noise of surprise.

“Is there anything I can do to convince you to do as I tell you?” he says when he pulls back, and James wets his lips.

He tastes like the pâté.

“I’ll be good,” he says, although the sly smile he gives Steve indicates that might not be the whole truth.

“Good,” Steve tells him, and goes back to the onions.

After a minute or so, there’s an electronic doorbell sound - not Steve’s usual somebody’s-here noise - and he glances at the eggs, gives the onions another stir.

“That’s the apple juice,” he says.

“I can get it-” James says, and Steve turns around so fast he nearly takes the eggs off the stove.

“You can sit where you are,” he says. “Your feet don’t touch the ground today unless I say so.”

James’ eyebrows goes up and he leans backwards, but he smiles at Steve like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“Okay,” he says, placatingly, and Steve rolls his eyes and goes for the door.

It’s DUM-E, which is nice - DUM-E’s better with new people - and he takes the claw-proffered apple juice and steps back.

“Thank you, DUM-E, how’s things?” 

DUM-E whines a whistle with an upward inflection and spins his arm around.

“Yeah, this is James,” Steve tells him, and then he looks at James. “Can he come say hi?”

“Oh my God, can he come say hi!?” James says, eyes wide, sheet slipping to his waist.

“Off you go,” Steve says to DUM-E and then, because he isn’t cruel, “a’right, I give in, why’on’t’cha hop down an’ talk to him?”

James does, instantly, gets off the counter and crouches to get level with the front of DUM-E, and then he holds out a hand like you might to a dog who doesn’t know you, as DUM-E wobbles close.

“Hi!” James says, his voice just as careful as his actions, and DUM-E whirs at him.

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose and then crosses back to his onions. DUM-E will occupy James for a little while, he can ease off for a minute or two. 

He turns the onions up while he’s thinking about it, help them go faster. They don’t need to be French-Onion-Soup perfect, he doesn’t need to take that long with it. 

The egg timer goes off a few seconds later and Steve swears under his breath - he didn’t know it was that close, how are they gonna be soft boiled now? 

He grabs the pan from the hob and shoves it in the sink, puts the water on cold on full blast. Then he turns it down a little when water goes all over the place.

That’ll have to do for a minute or two - he needs more water in the onions, too - and he looks between them. Right. He keeps the cold water running - he needs the cheese grater, and the paprika, and some mustard- -

He really didn’t think this one through enough.

James is busy baby-talking DUM-E (which DUM-E loves, so that’s not a problem) and Steve manages to walk between them and the kitchen island to get the rest of the ingredients.

Paprika, mustard - wholegrain - maybe more Worcestershire, and he definitely needs salt. He’s got garlic powder around here somewhere, too, plus the ground black pepper.

Shelling the eggs is easy - while James is figuring out that yes or no questions work best, Steve’s peeling the boiled eggs and putting them back in the cold water. They don’t need to be cold, but they could do with being lukewarm at the very least. 

He grates the Parmesan while the eggs keep cooling (hopefully) and he puts maybe a tablespoon of mayo in with a little of the mustard. He’s always eyeballed this one - Clint taught him how to do it because it’s a) fast, b) easy, and c) delicious, and it’s never gone wrong for him before. 

By the time he’s mashing the eggs into the condiments and seasonings with the fork, James is getting DUM-E to mimic hand gestures but, in what amounts to spectacular timing, Jarvis says,

_“My apologies, but DUM-E is required in the workshop.”_

“Oh!” James says, and he takes a step back. 

Steve wipes his hands on a dishcloth and stirs the onions while James says goodbye, and then, as soon as DUM-E has turned around and started making for the door, he grabs James around the waist, ignoring the squawk, and puts him back on the counter.

Then he follows DUM-E and goes to close the door behind him.

“Thank you!” Steve calls after him, and DUM-E whirs into the elevator, with another electronic noise. Steve shuts his front door once the elevator doors close, just as James says,

“Is that egg salad?”

And he turns back with a nod.

“Yeah,” he says, as James pulls his sheet back up a little. 

Steve crosses all the way over and pours James a glass of apple juice - he knows James would be happy drinking from the bottle but lunch ain’t fancy if you’re swigging apple juice like beer, so he fetches down a glass - and then he cuts two more slices of bread, from the brown loaf this time.

He makes more tea sandwiches from the egg salad, reserves a little for himself for later because he’s skipping lunch to see to James, and James makes a little noise as he cuts the crusts off.

“Hey,” he says, and Steve looks at him.

“Yes?”

James scrapes his teeth over his lower lip and hesitates.

“Uh,” he says. “I mean, I don’t mind crusts?”

“Homemade bread, crusts are the best part,” Steve answers. “But you can eat them yourself later for a snack. For now, it’s lunchtime.”

James’ eyebrows go up again but he passes his plate over. 

Steve turns the onions down and plates the egg salad finger sandwiches and, this time, when James goes to take the plate back, Steve draws it away, just out of his reach.

“Oh,” James says, and Steve just raises one eyebrow.

James looks at him, and then at the plate, and then at Steve again.

“Hands down,” Steve tells him, because he doesn’t seem to get it, and then he says,

_“Ohh,”_ and pushes himself a little further onto the counter, and puts his hands behind his back, grinning.

Then he opens his mouth.

“Good,” Steve tells him, and picks up the first of the eight little rectangles. “You’re gonna have at least half of these before you move on.”

James nods.

“Ah-hah,” he says, and takes a bite. 

The filling is warm and squishy and smushes out the sides of the bread, but it doesn’t seem to bother James - it’s certainly no issue for Steve. He gives James the second half of the rectangle as soon as he’s finished the first half, and then presents his fingers when he’s done with that.

James goes pink over the bridge of his nose again, flattens his tongue in little kitten licks over Steve’s skin, and then sits back.

“Take a drink,” Steve says, and James does.

Steve’s not going to do that for him - that’ll just end up in a mess if he misreads James’ body language - but he waits for James to put his glass back down before he offers the next sandwich. 

James laughs softly as he takes his next bite, mouth already open around the sandwich, and Steve smiles too, it happens before he even thinks about it. He watches James chew, tilts his head. James looks like he’s enjoying it, so Steve lifts his chin a little, eyes narrowing, asking the question without asking the question.

James bobs his eyebrows and grins as he chews, an obvious answer, and that settles the part of Steve’s brain that was worried about it.

James gets through another two sandwiches before Steve tells him to take another drink, using the opportunity to stir the onions. They’re coming up nice and brown now, they’ll get sticky soon.

“This is amazing,” James says. “How do you make egg salad amazing?”

“I have tried and tested recipes,” Steve answers, the back of his neck prickling, “and you’re exaggerating. Be quiet.”

“Ha ha, _egg_xaggerating,” James says. “Also, you literally just made me egg salad from scratch and it’s delicious and-”

“James-”

“-it is! It’s amazing, you cook all this amazing stuff-”

Steve picks up another sandwich to give him something else to do with his mouth, and James leans back to avoid it,

“-no, I’m not eating any more sandwiches until you take a compliment.”

Steve puts the sandwich back down on the plate and puts his hands on his hips. 

It’s difficult.

It’s difficult, the way it always is when James tries to compliment him, because he doesn’t like it. It feels immodest to accept compliments (which is something he’s still working on, Amrit keeps asking him about it), especially with the frequency James uses them. 

It’s also like a hitch in the relatively smooth route his mental intentions have been taking. Taking care of James by touching or tending or feeding is like a gentle hum, or a straight road. This is a pothole. 

Steve knows it’s fantasy, knows this isn’t an everyday thing. He knows James is his equal, he knows this is just sandwiches, knows it’s dumb to be upset about this, stupid to get worked up over something so small, but _dammit_-

“You’re supposed to be doing what I tell you.” 

~

James knows he’s gone too far. 

The friendly exchange has lost its levity, he can hear it. 

“Just kidding?” he tries, and Steve sighs through his nose, drops his gaze.

“James,” he says, and James lifts a hand, reaches out to him. 

Steve looks at James’ hand, takes it a moment later, but he doesn’t look up, not yet. James is worried how easy it might be to spiral from here, remembers the discomfort in the pit of his stomach when Steve called him by name that afternoon after the EWS refresher, the twisty feeling in his gut when he thought he might have to show up to the pool in shorts. He remembers the way he felt when Steve said things like ‘stifling’ and ‘you shouldn’t feel obligated’ and ‘I used to be easier to hold.’

If he’s not really fucking careful, and really quick about it, he’s going to blow the whole thing.

James pulls his hand, and Steve takes a step, just a step, and looks at him.

And seriously, it’s the middle of an extended sex game, what could James possibly say? Steve looks like he thinks James is about to up and leave. 

But then, if James, who very much enjoys being manhandled, could feel raw and open and naked when actually showing Steve he enjoyed it, it stands to reason that Steve, whom James has always joked is a stone cold service top, could feel raw and open and naked when showing that side of himself, too. James didn’t realize, really, that acting this way, doing these things for James, could be as nerve-wracking for Steve as some of their other activities have been for James. James has read fanfiction, he’s looked up videos and tutorials and wikipedia pages, he knows how you should be sweet to someone in subspace and very, very careful with people in drop. He’s got no idea if topspace is a thing or…dom…space or whatever?

Whatever it’s called, and whether Steve’s in that kind of mindset or not, James is starting to realize that maybe now wasn’t the time to push the boundaries of this scenario.He reaches up and almost puts a hand on Steve’s face, but it doesn’t feel right. 

“If you don’t want to keep going-” Steve says, and he’s closing off, he looks tired.

“I do,” James says, reaches out with his other hand, and he feels awful about it, he feels his stomach flip over, God, Steve’s _one fucking thing_ and James has fucked it up. “I do want to, I just, I…” and he knows he needs to be careful. Because he can try and convince Steve he likes what they’re doing all he wants but the only thing he can really do is tell the truth. “Steve, I forgot how to play. I forgot today’s different, that’s all, I was kidding. I was just kidding.”

Steve looks at him, at his eyes. He breathes for a long few moments and then narrows his eyes a little.

“Will you tell me again?” he says.

“I want you to make my decisions today,” James tells him. “If I don't like something, I'll tell you, I got words, right?” and Steve takes a long, deep breath. 

He lets it out just as slowly, searches James’ face for a moment, and then nods minutely.

“You can finish your egg salad sandwiches yourself,” he says, “no punishment, just ’cause I gotta start on the next one. Yes?”

James nods, fast.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes.”

Steve looks at him for a few moments longer, and James grabs his apple juice and takes a mouthful, swallows it as quick as he can.

“I want a kiss,” he says. “Will you kiss me?”

“Mnh,” Steve answers, just a soft little sound in the middle of his chest, and he does.

He steps forward and kisses James softly, lingering for a moment or two.

“Eat your sandwiches,” he says as he pulls away, but the furrow in his brow has shallowed, his eyes are half closed again, and James tries not to let out too loudly the breath he was holding as Steve goes back to the onions and the griddle pan.

“I love you,” James says, and Steve looks at him as he stirs the onions one last time, the corner of his mouth ticks up.

“I love you too,” he says, and then he nods at the plate, eyebrows going up as he enunciates clearly. “Eat your sandwiches.”

James grins and picks up the next one.

Steve is, as it turns out, making grilled cheese with caramelized onions, because somehow James’ life has led him to this point. He watches Steve put the sandwich together, cheese, caramelized onions, more mustard, more Worcestershire, pickle that he suddenly remembers and has to go get from the fridge, and he sits still and quiet while Steve toasts the whole thing. 

James knows he’s smiling, he can feel it, but it’s hard not to when Steve’s concentrating so hard on grilled cheese that James isn’t sure he’d even respond to his own name. He watches Steve take the sandwich off the heat, cut the crusts off - cheese oozes out as soon as he does - and cut it on the cutting board, this time into little squares.

Steve reaches out and picks up the plate without looking, which is empty, and James sees him check it and nod very slightly to himself before he arranges the grilled cheese squares on the plate.

Then he turns everything off and turns around.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and his voice is quiet but James’s response is not only Pavlovian, it’s two-fold.

First, he does exactly as he’s told, and then he blushes scarlet. 

Steve doesn’t pay that any mind and, instead, comes to stand right up against the counter, right between James’ spread legs.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he says, and James does.

It means he can’t hold the sheet any more and it falls to his waist again, very bare skin in very close proximity to Steve. Because James pulled himself backward on the counter, it means Steve’s not quite hips to hips with him, but he’s close, and that’s all James’ brain really needs. It doesn’t help that Steve likes to do this - James has been on the counter a few times before and it almost always ends up the same way, which is _not_ how it appears to be ending today.

Steve picks up one square of grilled cheese.

“Open your mouth,” he says, and James _knows_ Steve can see the blush because he makes an expression James rarely sees.

His eyes narrow just a little, his smile thins, and he lifts his head to look at James from under his eyebrows, shoulders squaring, with the plate held in one hand, tiny square of grilled cheese in the other. He’s _smug._

He’s _actually smug_, but there’s so much authority behind it, such intensity in his gaze, James just blushes harder. It’s how James imagines him looking when facing a captor, how James imagines him looking when a mission is successful. It’s not nearly so much of an ‘I told you so’ as it is a ‘damn straight,’ and James is glad he’s sitting down because his knees would be weak otherwise and Steve waits. Steve _waits_ \- James is sitting on the counter in nothing but a sheet, after two full sandwiches and half a glass of apple juice, and he’s about to be hand-fed tiny pieces of gourmet grilled cheese before his national icon boyfriend (hopefully) does terrible things to him this afternoon. If his mouth weren’t open he’d be saying something stupid for sure, something like ‘you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen’ or ‘I love you so hard’ or something equally as ridiculous. Even though both are true.

Steve blows on the tiny square. He’s got James sitting there, he’s right up against James, and he’s blowing on the tiny square to cool it down because it’s freshly made.

“Ah-hah,” Steve says softly, and then he feeds James the first bite.

It’s. 

_“Mmnhhh,”_ pretty fucking delicious - he gets the rough toasted side on his tongue first, then the grease from the butter, then soft, warm, inner homemade bread. 

Then the cheese, sharp and thick, and then the onion, rich and sweet, the mustard, the Worcestershire, the pickle. 

Steve knows it’s good, too - that’s the whole point. But he doesn’t need to ask, he doesn’t need to worry, he just knows, and he’s happy knowing. James opens his mouth again when he’s swallowed his mouthful, and Steve nods.

“Good,” he says, and then opens his mouth too as he feeds James the next one.

It’s so nice, it’s so good, and James is already getting full (who’s he kidding, he’s had two whole sandwiches) but he’s still disappointed that he knows the grilled cheese is finite. 

“Thank you,” he says after he’s swallowed the second one, and Steve’s gaze, which is on the plate as he picks up the next one, flicks up to meet his own for a moment.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says. And then, “Ah.”

James does, opens his mouth in imitation and watches Steve close his just as James does, mimicking. James doesn’t know if it’s deliberate but he _thinks_ it’s accidental.

James makes it all the way to the fifth one, watching Steve watch his mouth, watching Steve open and close his mouth as James does.

James laughs through his nose as he chews, just air but still, and Steve tilts his head a little, slowly.

“Go on,” he says. 

“You’re making the face,” James answers. 

There’s a moment where Steve realizes what James means and blinks, but then he smiles beatifically.

“Well,” Steve answers, “you were having trouble doing as you were told, I thought you could use an example. Open.”

James ears go hot. In a good way - this is good, this means that they’re back on track, this means Steve’s in the right frame of mind again and James is being put in his place - but it makes his stomach shivery and his blood warm. He opens his mouth.

This time, Steve puts the plate down next to them, next piece already in his other hand and, as he feeds the piece to James, he slides his other hand around James’ waist. James almost bites him, he gets such a shock - he’s not expecting Steve’s hand on his skin, and startles, hard.

“Easy, baby,” Steve says, and James leans into the touch without thinking.

Steve’s hand slides down and he eases his thumb under the sheet to rub at James’ hipbone.

“You tell me when you’re full,” he says, and then brushes the backs of his fingers against the flat of James’ stomach.

James flinches, tickled, and Steve makes another of those little noises in the back of his throat, amused.

“I think,” James says, and he licks the grease off his lips, “soon.”

“Mhm,” Steve says, “one more.”

And James opens his mouth obediently, waits. 

Steve’s hand flattens on his waist again, and James takes his last square of grilled cheese. It’s weird to eat with someone staring into your eyes, but Steve watches him with such focus, and such contentment, that James wouldn’t dream of looking away from him.

When he’s swallowed his mouthful, Steve picks up the glass of apple juice and gives it to him.

“Finish it,” he says, and James takes it, does as he’s told. 

Steve nods, ducks forward and kisses him briefly.

“I’m eating your lunch,” he says, and James chuckles as Steve mainlines the remaining five little squares. 

James has had seven of them. Probably too many but like who even cares, it tasted _amazing_.

Steve picks up James’ empty glass then, leans sideways and turns on the faucet, filling it with water. He drinks that in one, too, and then puts down the glass again.

Then he grabs James’ ass with both hands and hauls him forward, right up against him. James gasps, hands coming up, and he winds up with both palms on Steve’s chest. Steve just chuckles.

“Put ‘em ‘round my neck, doll, we’re movin’,” he says, and James does, gets his palms under Steve’s collar to feel his skin, wrapping his legs around Steve’s hips, too. 

Steve’s wearing jeans but James is wearing a sheet, and there’s heat between them already.

Steve scoops him up, easily, no problem, lifting him off the counter to hold him against his body. And then he turns around.

They’re going back to the bedroom, it looks like. 

James kisses him halfway there, and Steve doesn’t slow down - God, he can probably echo-locate or something - and takes James into the bedroom.

“You need the bathroom?” he says, and James thinks about it.

“I don’t _need_ it but it might be a good time.”

Steve nods.

“Okay,” he says, and then kisses James one more time, takes him all the way over to the en suite, and puts him down. “Stand here when you’re done,” he says.

James scrapes his teeth over his lower lip as he smiles, and Steve just gives him a knowing look as James closes the door between them.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve stands at the end of the bed while James uses the bathroom. 

He looks at the bed, looks around the room. It’s strange - he can’t really ever remember doing this after Brooklyn. After the war. He’d forgotten how still everything goes, and how right everything feels. He can look at a room and see what’s out of place, he can read body language and minute facial cues. It’s _easy_, and it makes him feel quiet on the inside, warm from the center outwards. It makes his hands feel steady and his lungs feel big, always did, even when those things weren’t true. 

He takes a long breath in through his nose and smiles. If he could sleep standing up, he might slip into it now. There’s no need to do anything while James is otherwise occupied, and the time he has to himself can just be spent waiting for James to come back. Steve can take care of him, Steve can provide for him. Steve can be everything James needs and, even if it’s just for a day, it makes all the noise in his head fall silent.

James doesn’t take long, and Steve finds it terribly endearing that he opens the bathroom door having rewrapped himself in the bedsheet. 

Steve walks all the way over to him and picks him up in another bridal carry. He smells mint - James brushed his teeth. 

"Any immediate discomforts?" Steve says as he carries James to the bed to put him down on it, and James shakes his head.

"No," he says. "I'm fine."

Steve nods.

"I'll be right back,” he says. “You stay right where you are and don't fret 'bout nothin'."

~

And James really can't help doing exactly as he's told. He had thought that this might be a different Steve but he was right before, when he talked about that guy who thought he stifled people - this is a man whose biggest enjoyment is providing for James. James has _seen_ him - each little gift, each compliment, each fantasy played out and trip for fun - Steve was born to play this role and it suits him down to the ground. 

Of course, even if James likes it, they won't do it all the time. But seeing how happy Steve is to make James happy, watching the look in his eyes change when he knows James will take what he wants to give, James thinks maybe he gets it. Maybe, watching Steve focus all his thought and love and energy into just holding James at the right moment, he can understand.

James hears him moving things around in the bathroom, hears the clink of nice-quality toiletries and tools being shifted around on tile and marble, and Steve comes back with terrycloth, a bristle brush and bowl combo, shaving cream (James assumes) in a tin, a basin of water, a thick red leather strap (two straps?) with a metal ring attached, and a straight razor. There’s a glass of mouthwash too? Okay?

James' head is propped up on pillows because that's how Steve left him, and Steve pulls a nightstand toward himself so he can set the things down next to the bed.

“Jarvis,” he says, but keeps his eyes on James. “Please increase the ambient temperature by five degrees.”

_“Of course, Commander,”_ Jarvis answers, and James presumes this is so he won’t get cold while Steve keeps him naked. 

Steve looks at him, stares down at him - doesn’t even look him up and down, just stares at his body. Intense is the right description for Steve, really - James has heard that the serum increased everything, and he wonders if that included his capacity to love. It certainly feels like nobody’s ever loved James like this before. Then Steve leans down and unwraps the sheet carefully, moving James to get it out from underneath him.

"Ever cut yourself with that?" James asks, glancing at the razor, and Steve nods. 

"Once," he says, "a hundred years ago." He holds out his arms and shows James, palm down, perfectly still, "no more shakes. Trust me to do it without cuttin' you?"

"Yeah," James says, and Steve nods.

And then he closes one very large hand around James' ankle and eases James' legs open, pushes upward with his grip so that James bends his knee, and then does the same with the other one, planting James' feet on the mattress.

"Still trust me?" he says, and James wets lips that are suddenly dry, speaks with lungs that are suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

"Yeah," he says in a rush of air, "I-" oh wow, oh wow, okay, "-I still trust you."

He does, he totally does. But wow, he was not expecting this - it’s like being naked in front of the windows, like being held open and eaten out - this is exposure in a way that’s totally unexpected and leaves him completely vulnerable, and James is shivery with the anticipation of it in the thirty seconds since Steve’s made his intentions clear. Steve gives him another few seconds, watching him carefully. James is going to get hard by the time they're through, he knows it. He's shaved Steve's face before, when Steve couldn't do it himself (and then a couple of times once he could again, just because it was a nice thing to do for his boyfriend) but that was with a safety razor. Neither of them have done _this_ for each other before.

Steve decides that James really means it, and he nods minutely to himself.

“Don’t move around,” Steve says, his voice a low hum, “I don’t need you to help me, you just relax and enjoy it. I’ll move you how I need when I need to.”

He first picks up the razor and the red leather double straps - which are cinched together at the ends - and ignores James completely. James isn’t sweating, but he’s aware of the air around his body considering he usually has his legs closed and his dick and his balls in a nice protective layer of jersey fabric. That whole area’s warm from the little attention its had and the idea of the lots-more attention it’s about to receive, and the shift of air across the skin only makes him more aware of how exposed he is.

He’s naked, but he feels like he’s wearing a blanket with a hole cut out of it, feels like the rest of his body’s a blur, feels like his dick and his balls are the only visible part of himself, the only pieces where the skin has nerves.

He wets his lips, keeping his hands flat on the mattress instead of covering himself, and Steve stands up, takes the metal ring that’s attached to the top of the strap, and loops said over one of the slats of the headboard. He’s essentially standing right next to James’ torso, and James watches him as he holds the belt out towards himself, like a bridge between himself and the headboard.

“This is a strop,” Steve tells him, “I’m warming the blade on the backside.”

James’ brain likes the words ‘warming’ and ‘backside’ in close succession, apparently, but then Steve holds out the shiny straight razor and starts to…rub it against the strop. It makes a soft zipper sort of noise with each pass - up, down, up, down.

“I,” James says, unsure if he should speak.

Steve continues what he’s doing for a few long moments, and then pauses, looks at James.

“Yeah?” he says softly.

“I always thought,” he says, and Steve resumes the motions, “you had to use the leather side.”

“You do,” Steve answers. “You warm the blade with the cotton side first so the leather does more for it.”

James doesn’t move except to nod slowly.

“Oh,” he says, and his voice sounds small to his own ears.

Steve continues,_ zip, zip, zip, zip, _the metal glinting in the light of the afternoon as he makes each pass, his tags knocking against his chest with each movement. It's not a slow movement - it's quick, dextrous - he flips the blade in his fingers after each stroke, easily, and looks at it with the kind of expression that suggests his body and his mind are at quite a distance from one another. He breathes evenly, his eyes half closed, and James considers closing his legs until Steve’s done. Except Steve put him here, Steve’s doing this on purpose.

James curls his fingers in the bedclothes and lies still and Steve pauses.

"I can't hold your hand while I strop the blade," Steve says, "but you can hold onto me if you need to."

James nods, curls his fingers around Steve's knee instead. 

Steve is watching him again, gauging him. And then he goes back to warming the blade on the cotton side of the strop.

It's mesmerizing really - James isn't surprised that Steve zones out a little doing it. Except, of course, Steve's not finding the blade against the cotton mesmerizing, he's just slipping into that whole service top state of mind, James is pretty sure.

"Do you love me?" James hears himself ask, and, thought it's only for a second, Steve stills so suddenly James might think time had stopped if he didn't know better.

"Course I love you," Steve says, resuming his actions. "Course I do. You need'a stop?"

James shakes his head, and then uses his words.

"No," he says, and Steve's shoulders sink a little, "I just…" he clears his throat. "Sorry, I-I just wanted to hear it."

"Ain't gotta be sorry," Steve tells him, and goes on stropping the blade.

James doesn't distract him again - if Steve's warming the blade or whatever, then every time James stops him Steve has to go a little longer, and so he lies where he is and watches Steve move the blade over the cotton, listens to the sound it makes, matches his breathing with Steve's totally by accident.

When Steve turns the strop over, James moves without thinking - lifts his free hand and drapes it between his legs because his subconscious isn't used to being so exposed. He realizes a moment later what he's done but, and here's the thing, he _sees_ Steve register it.

Without slowing his hand, without turning his head, something about Steve's gaze changes and James realizes he saw and is _watching_, out of the corner of his eye. Steve's as much as said he won't be told off for moving, right? That's the implication?

" 'Ever you want, darlin'," Steve murmurs, as though reading his mind. 

Damn, he really _is_ good at anticipating needs.

Steve strokes the leather side of the strop with the flat of his hand, fairly quickly. James isn't sure why - maybe he's dusting it off or warming it up or something, but Steve starts to strop the blade on the leather side soon enough.

It's a higher noise, with less tone to it, a whisper instead of a song, but he goes just as fast, Sharpening the blade, probably. That's what this is for, right?

"What does that do?"

"Sharpens the blade," Steve answers, "helps put any pieces out of alignment back in, burnishes the metal. Straight razors are delicate, they need care."

"Why'd you rub it first?"

"Warm the leather," he says, "and the," he seems to search for the word for a moment. "Oils on my skin help."

And so James doesn't say anything else. He listens to the _shiff_ of metal on leather and lets it lull him for a while. He doesn't need to speak right now - just as Steve said, as long as James trusts him to know what's best for James (and James does) there's no problem. He tries to ignore the fact that each pass of the razor on the leather brings them closer to Steve’s actual aim. 

Steve is almost silent, and James takes a deep breath at one point only to see Steve turn his head minutely. He does it again, frowning, and Steve looks at him, and then goes back to what he's doing. Which means he's listening to James breathe while he works. Huh.

When Steve lowers the strop, James' stomach goes all shivery. Steve turns to put the razor on the nightstand, and then picks up the brush and the tin.

"Soap," he says, and, although the volume might suggest he's talking to himself, James knows it's for his benefit.

So James watches him there, as well. He unscrews the lid of the tin, soaks the brush bristles in the warm water until it's saturated, and then shakes off the excess water, before he starts to swirl the brush in the tin.

He sits down again, too, past where James is lying. If James’ head weren’t propped up on the pillow, he wouldn’t be able to see Steve but Steve’s already seen to that.

The thing is, Steve said soap, but James only knows what Steve’s telling him, at least for the most part. Obviously, James knows how to shave. But a straight razor’s new, as is the whole process. He remembers Peter Pan from when he was a kid, and wrapping somebody up in a hot towel, but that’s about the extent of his knowledge, and Steve doesn’t have a hot towel.

Steve swirls the brush for a long time in silence, all of it in silence, aside from the zip-shiff of the blade, aside from the deep evenness of his breathing, aside from the slick sounds of the bristles in the soap, aside from the creak of the bed, until the brush is full of white foam, and then he sets the tin back down on the nightstand. 

James is just about to brace himself for the brush when Steve pinches the bristles between his fore and middle fingers, the bristles pointing inward toward his palm. It’s not until he draws the brush out of his loose fist again that James realizes what he’s doing - he’s using his fingers to squeeze the lather from the brush into his palm, he’s getting a palmful of the substantial amount of lather he’d gathered in the brush and _oh_, he’s going to use his _hand_ to apply it, not the brush, that’s-

“Relax,” Steve says, and then his huge hand is cupping James’ balls, cool and wet with the lather, James feels _tiny_, not to mention _incredibly_ naked, with basically all of his genitals in just _one_ of Steve’s hands, Steve’s massive thumb moving gently over the skin. 

James has to fight to breathe as Steve spreads the lather over his balls and up over his pubic bone, at the tops of his thighs and over his perineum.

Two searching fingers ease back and rub the lather over his hole, not pushing in, and James finds it difficult to get oxygen in, tips his head back with a gasp and tries to keep his hips still as he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip.

His cock is starting to fill, and there’s no way Steve doesn’t know. If he can’t see it, he can probably hear the difference in James’ heartbeat or something.

“Breathe, doll,” Steve murmurs. “I need you predictable.”

James does - purses his lips and blows out a long, slow breath.

He’ll have to count how long he breathes in for, how long he breathes out, he’ll have to-

Steve’s big, cool hand is gone for a moment, and James just has time to wonder what he’s doing when it’s back, fingers easing James’ skin taut at his pubic bone and, oh, oh wow, okay, he’s actually, they’re doing this, this is, is -

" 'S'alright, sugar," Steve murmurs, and then there's something cold and firm over his skin and that-

That's the razor, James can hear the gentle scrape of it against coarse hair. His face is on _fire_. 

"There you go," Steve says, and James starts trying to concentrate on being an easy subject, not least because every time Steve speaks it disturbs a silence he seems to be enjoying. 

James doesn't mind either way - he's as happy with whispers as he is with silence as he is with talking, but this? Steve seems to be on a different plane of existence and James is reluctant to drag him back from it every time.

Steve is careful - of course he is - and he told James to relax, but relaxing is very difficult when you're watching your very attractive boyfriend fondle your balls like it's just another everyday occurrence. His fingers are warm and James barely feels the blade even though he can see it - Steve starts at his pubic bone(ish) and shaves the trail of hair that leads down from James' navel, outward to the hair at the tops of his thighs. He holds James' skin taut and follows the contours of the way James' hair grows, all of it pointing inward toward his cock, at least until it actually gets to his cock itself. 

Steve clears the skin until he's level with James' dick, and then he lifts (okay, Steve's had his tongue actually inside James' ass but this is what mortifies James the most, in that hot, squirmy way he likes so much) James' dick up out of the way, and starts pressing his fingers in strategic places to get the skin taut there, too. He moves James' dick when he needs to, holds it firmly and pulls it outward to get the hairs at the root of it, upward to get the ones beneath it. 

The scrape of the blade is high and rasping, and Steve works methodically until he has to -

James breathes, continues to breathe, but it's an effort and puts his hands over his face. When Steve lets go of James' cock to start on the side of his balls, James' cock does not flop back down because it's currently _very_ pleased with his current situation, and so it rests, tacky with the damp from the remnants of the lather, against the now-smooth skin of his lower stomach. 

What Steve has to do next is cover James' balls with one hand and move them aside, to stretch the skin, and James can tell which parts of himself are now clean-shaven, because his skin seems alive in a different way in the wake of the blade. Steve does his left side first, then the right, then lifts the delicate flesh and starts to shave the underside. James is going to actually combust, he's blushing so hard he can feel the warmth on his hands. Steve's unbearably delicate with him (not really unbearably, James loves it) and every perfunctory touch makes him worse, makes him harder and more desperate to fidget and more mortified to be spread out so openly. 

When Steve has finished the underside of his balls, he starts on James' perineum, and James tries very hard not to think of all the porn he's watched, not to imagine himself smooth and vulnerable, more naked now even than when they started, pink and new and damp with a lather applied by loving fingers and removed by a wickedly sharp blade.

He is _so, so_ hard. 

The sensation of the blade on his perineum is just about the definition of insanity - Steve's so good with it that it's cool, brief, thin (of course it is, it's a literal razor) but barely a whisper. There are places in which it tickles, and James clenches his ass because the blood is all in that area and he wants something, anything-

Steve goes still.

James stills too, fuck, he can't afford to move.

"I got it," James says once he’s back under control, and there's a second's delay before Steve continues.

It almost tickles, he almost squirms - his skin is cool and damp and his face is hot and damp, and his cock is hard and starting to leak, and he cranes his neck, tips his head right back and breathes, and breathes. Scrape, scrape, James can't look at him, James can't look down to see because he won't be able to see anyway even though he can hear it anyway.

He'll see his dick up on his stomach, he'll see his balls in Steve's hand as Steve holds them up, he'll see Steve-

That's what makes him look, what makes him open his eyes and look, he wants to know what Steve looks like. And he's surprised, when he does - he's expecting that dark-eyed focus, that fiery intensity, a firm jaw and a steady hand, when he looks down. Instead, Steve has almost no expression at all. His eyes half closed, his mouth closed, his head tilted just a little, Steve looks like he might if James left him to float in a bath of warm water or to sleep in a pile of blankets. It's a quiet patience, James realizes, bordering on…it's not apathy, it's not disinterest, it's something else. 

It hits him a moment later - it's contentment. There's no crease between Steve's eyebrows, no pinch to his mouth. There's a languidness to his movements though he's very clearly well aware of what he's doing and how to do it - Steve is enjoying himself the way he might enjoy a quiet afternoon by the fireside, with as much care and affection in his eyes as he always shows. James finds it difficult to look at, especially when he's so blatantly naked, when Steve is so close to such tender, private places.

Steve moves his hand - wiping the blade on a towel - and then he moves. The mattress dips, James thinks for a moment he's getting up, but then he puts the blade down on the nightstand and the towel across his lap. And then he moves closer, tucks his thigh under James' legs and then reaches for James' ankles. 

He lifts James' legs by his ankles - really James just follows what he's Steve's doing and lifts his legs when he realizes that's what Steve wants - and Steve keeps going, keeps pushing at James ankles until James has his knees almost to his chest, and James will actually set fire to the bed he's blushing so hard, he knows what Steve's doing, he knows what comes next. His face actually stings with the knowledge of it, his nipples ache where they strain against the air.

James hooks his own hands under the backs of his knees, because he knows Steve will need his own hands, and he knows his legs'll tire early if he doesn't hold them. Steve doesn't say a word, silent and satisfied, and picks up his razor again. James' lungs shiver in his chest, James' stomach quivers, he's so aroused by something so simple, but it's something so intimate, something so new and his skin feels so fresh, feels newly-grown and electrified.

Steve uses his fingers first, settling them right next to James' hole, rubbing his thumb through the lather - there's a small scar roundabout there, from a bastard of a whitehead when James was about fourteen. It was hell for about three days and it made Phys. Ed. eye-wateringly painful until James got impatient with it (and then, of course, it was just as eye-watering for another three days) and it almost never occurs to James that he has it. Except now Steve's thumb slips over it, now Steve will be passing a razor over it.

James can hear himself breathing - the desperate sucking in of air in a hopeless attempt to calm himself. He's not afraid - that's not what this is, and he's almost surprised to realize it. Of all the things Steve's making him feel, of all the things James is just feeling all by himself, none of them are fear. Most of them are near painful levels of arousal. 

Steve makes one more path with his thumb and then presses in, pulls upward, waits for the inevitable reflexive clench of James' hole and then begins, scraping the blade from _right next_ to the furled flesh and moving outward, before he comes back to do it again. It takes every ounce of willpower James has to stay relaxed, to keep himself from clenching down on nothing as Steve works. Every time Steve moves his hand, it happens anyway - James can't fight it all the time and he wants so badly for something inside him - but Steve always waits. Settles his hand, pulls the flesh taut, waits for James' body to beg without words, and then carries on with what he's doing, scraping the razor over James' skin.

He, predictably, masterfully avoids James' scar - that's why he was checking in the first place - and James has to open his mouth to breathe when it occurs to him, because Steve knew, Steve was checking on something he already knew. James is with a man who knows him so well that he remembers scars in places other people don't even get to _see_, and it makes James' head spin.

He keeps going, too, past James' hole all the way to his coccyx in slow, careful strokes. Occasionally, James can feel Steve's breath on his skin and, somehow, it's even more unbearable (amazing) that Steve has kept his touches practical, task-focused.

When Steve wipes the razor for the last time and sets it down, James can feel himself shaking. He knows Steve can see, he knows Steve will do something about it (if Steve deems fit) but as soon as he hears the razor click down onto the nightstand, he shakes his head, moans softly because he's been holding it back for so long.

"Ohn," he says, fighting the urge to close his legs, and the urge to grab his dick, feeling himself clench down on nothing and knowing Steve can see, "ohn, Steve, please-"

Steve uses a damp corner of the towel to clean the soap from James' skin. He doesn't hurry with that, either, long, slow strokes of lukewarm terrycloth over skin that's somehow forgotten how much it could feel. His balls are drawn up tight now, so it's easy to get the soap off them, easy for Steve to see when they're clean. James doesn't even put his legs back down, he just holds himself open while Steve cleans the lather off him, and tries not to thrust up into the terrycloth.

When he fails, shoving his cock upward into the soft half-grip Steve has on it, Steve just presses his other hand to the back of James' thigh so he's got no control - not that he had much control with his legs up against his chest anyway. He rocks a little, tries to thrust into Steve's cottoned fist, but gives up a few seconds later, and it's then that Steve does it for him, three long, slow strokes of cooling terrycloth over his hot, aching dick - it's not enough but it feels so good. 

Steve dries him then, patting at him with the towel - his thighs, his balls, his perineum, his hole, and he spends extra time there, too, just because he can, just because it’s sensitive - and James is dizzy with it, is desperate for it. Steve pulls him open just a little more with a thumb against his hole, and pushes his covered finger inside _just_ a little, only to draw it back again. James manages to let him but he feels indescribable, between mortified and insatiable - as soon as Steve's literal fingertip is no longer inside him, he clenches and clenches and clenches as though somehow it'll bring Steve back.

And then Steve, because it's fucking Steve and he's unbelievable, puts his hands on James' already-spread ass, leans down, and fucking _kisses_ him, right fucking _there_, just a brief little thing, and then, just as James is working up to breaking the silence, just as James is about to beg for Steve's tongue, Steve fucking sucks his balls instead.

"Fuck, _fuck_!" James gasps, Steve's mouth is so _hot_, and James can feel his teeth, and James' skin feels new, feels like it's freshly healed, tender and tingly in the wake of Steve's _mouth_\- "Ha-ugh, ohn, fuck, Steve, _Steve_-"

Steve uses his tongue instead, sweeps it up and over James' balls but doesn't suck his cock, sweeps it down over his perineum and onto freshly shaved skin but doesn't rim him, and James spreads his legs where he's holding them to his chest, and feels just about as obscene as he ever has. He can't come from this, not in a million years, but it makes his whole body sting with the kind of blush he's not used to having any more.

Steve doesn't say anything, doesn't even make any of his usual noises, he just covers all of James' skin with his tongue, gets his mouth on James in every place except where James needs it.

"Ple-" James says, and has to start again when his breath hitches. _"Please!"_

"Easy, sugar," Steve murmurs, the words long and drawn out which is apt when James’ whole reality is trying to stretch out like taffy, and that's _teeth_, those are his _teeth_-

Steve shifts on the bed, gets closer and leans down and-

All of James’ limbs protest at once - he tries to kick out at the same time as his arms lock, so he doesn’t go anywhere, thank God, but Steve’s mouth is so- 

“Ah, uhn, Steve, Ste-” 

Holding himself like this makes it easy for Steve, Steve doesn’t have to hold him or move him, and-

“Let go,” Steve says, and James takes a second to understand what he means, takes a second to figure it out.

“Huh?” he says, breathless, please no, why?

But Steve’s hands slide up the back of James’ thighs and oh, _oh, Steve’s_ going to hold him like this, Steve’s going to save James’ arms before they even get tired, God, of course he is -

“Let,” he says, soft but firm, “go.”

James bites his lip and cranes his neck but does as he’s told, sliding his hands out from the backs of his knees, and Steve hums a noise and then gets back to work - his hands are so big and so hot, they’re like brands against the backs of James’ thighs, and his _tongue_-

“Steve,” James says, just to have it in his mouth, shuts his eyes against the onslaught of pleasure, “Steve, ohn, Steve,” but Steve isn’t in a hurry, James is gonna go nuts.

Steve laps at him, kisses at him, Steve uses his lips and his tongue and his teeth and James tries to spread his legs more, tries to push up into him. He doesn’t move an inch - instead, the weight of Steve’s hands increases, and his movements slow.

“Steve,” James groans. “Steve, _please_-”

“You,” he says, leaving a long gap between each of his words, “are, mine, today.”

And James knows that he does, that’s the thing - Steve was made for this role, Steve was made to be this for someone else and James is so unbelievably lucky that it’s _him_ Steve has picked, that Steve wants _James_ to take care of. It’s insanity as far as James is concerned, it makes his ears ring with the effort of wrapping his head around it. 

He groans, winces because he can’t help it, tries to spread himself open in a desperate attempt to get more but he can’t, it doesn’t work, he can’t get closer than Steve wants him to get and it’s maddening, it stings in his face and down his neck, he lifts his hands and rubs over his nipples because they’re starting to sting with it.

“Uhn,” he groans, tries to thrust up and fails, “Ste-” tries to wriggle to get Steve’s mouth in a different place faster and fails, and he bites his lip, make a noise that’s strange even to him.

His cock feels so full and the rest of him feels so empty, and Steve’s breath is hot on his skin, damp and warm, his hands sure and strong and _huge_-

“I ne-” James says, and then shuts his mouth so hard his teeth click. Steve knows what he needs, doesn’t he? Isn’t that the point, Steve will tell him what he wants, Steve will tell him what he needs but, “O_-oh! _ Oh _fuck!”_

Steve licks a stripe up his dick and James lifts his head to look down at him do it, desperately hoping Steve will -

Steve’s staring straight at him from under his eyelashes, watching, staring at James, and he doesn’t look away when he gets to the tip, doesn’t look away when James clenches down and it makes his cock swing upward toward Steve’s mouth - Steve’s _mouth,_ God, his lips, they’re so red and they’re slick with spit and-

Steve swallows him whole, doesn’t even seem to take a breath, and James slams his head back into the mattress and arches his back as best he can (which isn’t much) and groans so loudly it makes his ears feel strange on the inside, makes his chest feel grated from within.

“Steve!” he says, but it’s loud and drawn-out and Steve has sucked him off before, Steve’s had his mouth on James when James has been pretty much freshly-shaved before but this is, Steve’s so, James can’t _think_-

James gasps desperately, half disappointed in himself for not keeping quiet when the quiet Steve wrapped around them was so close to being palpable, but Steve doesn’t bob his head. He doesn’t hold James’ dick at the root or follow the length of it, he just stays there, silent, lips almost right the way down, nose brushing James’ lower belly. He isn’t breathing, but he is still staring straight up at James, dark, glittering eyes, stretched, swollen mouth, when James looks down at him. 

He hums softly, so low and so gentle that James almost doesn’t hear it, but he _feels_ it, that much is certain, it takes away his ability to think for a long few seconds. And then Steve swallows, hard, soft throat pulsing around James, and James can’t help it, can’t help it, has to put his hands in Steve’s hair-

“Sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasps, a whispered mantra, but Steve doesn’t show any sign that he’s heard, doesn’t show any sign that he’s displeased.

He just does it again, swallows hard around James and waits.

James threads his fingers in Steve’s hair, tugs on the strands and strokes over Steve’s neck and shoulders, moans softly as his upper body writhes, lower body held still by his fricken _supersoldier bodyfriend_.

Steve does it again - James is going to go mad, he knows, he’s gonna go off the rails crazy, Steve’s gonna have him screaming by the end of the day, and that’s probably his plan, that was probably his plan from the start. James knows he can quit any time, James knows he can sit up and say ‘I changed my mind’ or just straight up say his safeword, but why would he do that now? Why would he do that when he can have _this_-

“Ah! Ah, ah,” he says, too loud at first and then a little more controlled as Steve does it again - James pulls on his hair, cups the back of Steve’s neck, and knows Steve will stop him if he needs to (knows Steve wouldn’t need to stop him in a million years).

Steve keeps doing it. He swallows around James and waits, does it again and waits, and each time James is closer until he thinks he’s gonna burst, until he thinks his blood can’t warm any further, until he thinks his dick can’t get any harder. 

“Please,” he says, and he knows he’s being pathetic - Steve’s the only one he trusts to see it - but Steve just keeps right on going, at his own pace, making his own decisions. 

His mouth is hot and his eyes are dark and James doesn’t know how long it’s been but he knows Steve can hold his breath for _minutes_, and that those minutes are starting to feel like _years_. Every time he swallows, James thinks he’ll come, every time Steve’s throat pulses around him, James teeters on the edge of it. His dick stings with how full it is, the muscles in his stomach ache with the need to thrust upward, and his thighs are starting to burn. He’s not sure how much more of it he can take - he feels like embers inside, slowly consuming his nerves without being seen. 

This is no fast-moving fire, no lightning flash of pleasure, this is pushing deep into his blood inch by inch, flickering sparks that-

“Steve,” he gasps the next time, his whole body feels like it’s being pulled inward, his fingers are white-knuckled in Steve’s hair. “Steve,” he groans the time after that, it feels like he’s falling through the bed, feels like the air’s being pulled out of his lungs, feels like his heart is trying to burst through his sternum.

And then finally, oh God, _finally_-

“Ah, oh, oh, Steve, _Steve!”_ It’s not much of a warning, but it’s all he has time to give, and then Steve just keeps doing exactly what he’s doing, doesn’t shift, doesn’t let James thrust upward into his throat, just swallows what James has to give.

James feels like his whole body is trying to pour itself into Steve, feels like his skin is trying to crawl off his bones, and his spine snaps him forward without any warning, crunching up his stomach as he groans. He flops back into the mattress when the cramping wave of it passes, and then it happens again - his whole body’s moving by itself, it’s out of his control, he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

“Steve,” he says, and Steve swallows again - it’s so good it’s sharp, so sharp it almost hurts, “please,” he gasps, and then he can’t get the breath in to get the full word out, “pl- ple- ohhh-”

Steve swallows around him again and James lets go and grabs for the bedclothes, pulling them towards him as he tries to anchor himself, his lungs faltering, his blood screaming in his ears, orgasm so hard and so fast it makes snow behind his closed eyelids.

He gasps, his lungs come back all at once and then he’s crying out with it, “Steve!” and Steve doesn’t swallow around him this time, Steve doesn’t move, he just waits, and waits, “Steve,” James gasps again, and another aftershock hunches his shoulders in, arches his spine where he’s lying on the bed. “Oh, Steve, Steve,” and then, and _only_ then, Steve starts to move.

James has to bite his lip to hold back the whine, has to keep his deathgrip on the bedclothes so he doesn’t grab Steve and try to haul him back. Steve cranes his neck and turns his head so that he can lay James’ softening dick against his stomach _with his mouth_ before sliding his hands back down the back of James’ thighs and sitting back on his haunches. He cups James’ shins in his massive hands, and takes their weight as James unfolds them, keeps his eyes on James while James’ chest heaves, while James’ fingers spasm, while his mouth goes dry from breathing so hard and his thighs shake from trying so hard to get what he wanted.

He reaches back out for the glass on the table, rinses out his mouth and spits it back into the glass, and James lifts one hand from the bedclothes and stretches out with it, rendered helpless, and Steve comes to him, moves forward like liquid and holds himself over James to kiss him, soft and deep, pressing James into the bed without resting his weight on him.

“Steve,” he gasps, “Steve, I love you. I love you, Steve-”

“I love you too,” Steve says, brings his mouth to James’ ear and follows the line of his throat with the barest brushes of his lips. “And I will give you what you need.”

James shudders underneath him, lifts his trembling hands and holds onto Steve’s waist to feel hot skin under soft, smooth fabric, lifts one leg up over Steve’s hip to feel him really there, to anchor himself to Steve.

It’s true, James knows. What Steve is doing is reading his wants, his desires. Finding what he likes and giving what he wants but making him wait for it. It’s a simple formula, and it’s framed almost like telepathy. But even if all Steve is doing is reading him like a goddamned book (he is), even if all Steve’s doing is going off past experience (he is), even if it’s not telepathy and it’s just plain old Steve and his eidetic memory bringing back all the things he’s cataloged for the last six months, isn’t it still the truth? 

Steve _knows_ him, more intimately than anyone ever has. 

And Steve will give him what he needs.

~

James takes a few minutes to wind down, which Steve expected. It’s nice to hold him through it, of course, to lie close with him and smooth careful hands over James’ skin, to watch him tremble and gradually still.

Steve is able, in times like these, to pull pleasure to the surface and push the urgency back a little (or, at least, James’ ability to respond to the urgency the way he might ordinarily), but he recognizes what James is giving him. He knows how much effort it is for James to do as he’s told, especially when Steve isn’t using restraints, especially when they haven’t discussed it in advance - he will, if they need to. He’ll stop, they’ll talk about it - he’s already a little nervous given that they just jumped straight in.

He kisses James, presses close to him and kisses him, slows him down as he does - it’s not difficult to ease his trembling, to help his breathing slow. That’s one of many of Steve’s tasks today, and it’s simple, all he has to do is ground James.

And so he slows his breathing, slows each kiss, takes one of James’ hands in his own until James breathes easily, until James responds just as softly, just as quietly.

When Steve pulls away to look at him, James smiles, and that’s enough to tell Steve that James is where he wants him.

He pushes himself up with one last kiss, easing himself off James to sit next to him on the bed instead, and looks at him.

~

Steve looks down at him, his face not quite blank but definitely open, and blinks a few times. 

“Right,” he says. 

He reaches out for a cloth, and then leans close.

“Lemme help,” he says. 

He cleans the sweat from James' neck. He strokes the moisture from James’ face.He washes James’ underarms and then the backs of James’ knees and the place where his thighs were pressed to his stomach, and then dries him. Then he stands again. 

“Rest,” he says, “I won’t be long.”

And then he starts to ferry the razor and its accoutrements back to the en suite, one journey at a time.

James watches him, the strength of his profile, the length of his legs, the beautiful taper of his torso and the sweet curve of his spine from his shoulders to his lower back. He’s mesmerizing to watch, leads his walk with his feet like Fred Astaire dancing, holds his shoulders back and turns his head like— 

It’s regal, is what it is, and James can’t think of anyone to compare it to because who the hell compares to Steve Rogers?

“I love you,” he says, the words a little bit mumbled, and Steve’s gaze shifts over to him as he blinks slowly.

“I love you too, darling,” he says, and turns to take the soap and the brush away.

When everything’s out of the bedroom and Steve’s put the nightstand back, he comes over to James, leans down over him.

“What’s next?” James says, lifting one hand to stroke the hair back off Steve’s forehead.

“What’s next is getting you clean,” Steve answers, and James has time to be surprised and a little confused before Steve scoops him up.

~

Steve takes James into the bathroom and sits him down on the lid of the toilet - he has to knock it down with his foot but his balance is perfect so it's no problem=. “Any objections?”

“Uh,” James answers, and he’s frowning when Steve looks at him. “What is…Are…Uh.”

“If you don’t want to,” he says, turning on the faucet in the tub, putting his hand in to test, “you’re allowed to say so,” but they’ve talked about this, about bathing.

Not recently, of course, not really - back when they were talking about Agent Steve and Hacker James, if Steve remembers correctly, but James didn’t object then. And given that James didn’t object to being shaved, either, Steve figures James probably won’t mind a bath. James has words to tell him otherwise if he needs to.

“No, it’s,” James says, and when Steve looks back at him, he’s smiling, “it might be nice.”

“That’s the idea.”

The water pressure’s regulated by Jarvis, for the most part - the bath won’t take as long to fill as a regular tub. Although it is insanely big - it'll fit Steve with room to spare. In fact, much like the rest of the furniture, it's massive presumably precisely _because_ it needs to fit Steve in it. It does give Steve a few minutes, though, just to check a few things, to make sure everything’s alright.

He’s not sure yet what his gameplan is besides hair washing, but it depends whether James enjoys it or not. They both almost always take showers - the last time he took a bath before his hypothermia-avoidance dip at James’ parents was…

Okay, a good couple of years. Huh.

He rolls up his sleeves as the tub fills, the air humid with it, closer because of it, and puts out cloths, a whole bunch of towels, bottles.

“Scent preference?” he says, and James shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. 

Steve gets a warm, swelling feeling in his chest - that means he gets to choose.

So he picks up a couple of their very few fancy ones. James likes, Steve is aware, food scents. He likes his vanilla, his coconut, his strawberry cupcake. Steve has a few he can mix and match - including what Natasha likes to call the Steve Rogers ‘signature scent,’ which is cedar, because cedar smells nice and Steve likes it. 

Every birthday she gets him another bottle of his cologne.

So he puts cedar and vanilla in the bath, he’ll use just vanilla in James’ hair because it won’t be so overpowering later (maybe coconut conditioner), and he moves the water around under the facet stream to stir up some suds. A little of both of them for something warm and heady.

“Will,” James says, and Steve looks at him, “you be getting in with me?”

“We’ll see how well you behave,” he says, but he’s smiles when he says it, and he stands up, dries his hand on the nearest towel.

Then he holds out both hands to James. 

“Come here,” he says, and James does. 

He does one better than Steve was expecting, actually, letting the sheet fall as he stands instead of trying to keep it up around himself - it means that he can put both his hands in Steve’s. And Steve was planning on helping him get in, sure, but finds he wants James close, first, instead.

He pulls James towards himself, gets his hands on him - arms around him so that one hand cradles the back of his head, the other tucked up where James’ thigh meets his ass.

He kisses him, because he wants to, and then looks down at him.

"Would you like me to put you in the bath?" he says.

~

James looks at him, looks him up and down.

James would not object, of course not. But he's also pretty sure that Steve would like his answer to be yes - and, okay, today is supposed to be about what James wants. But like is it so bad that what James really wants is for Steve to do that really cute puffed-up-chest thing as the anxiety melts out of his expression and the light comes into his eyes?

Plus he likes it when Steve manhandles him.

"It's awful high," James says, giving Steve his best puppy dog eyes. "Not sure I can manage it myself."

Steve chuffs a soft sound of skepticism but allows it nonetheless, and James couldn't hide his smile even if he wanted to as Steve makes a stirring motion with his finger. James turns around, obliging so that Steve will be able to put him in the right way around, and Steve gets James back in his arms.

James can feel him - the hair on his arms, the texture of his skin, the shirtsleeves he's rolled to his elbows. When he cradles James to his chest, he's warm through the cotton.

James waits until Steve's got him, loops his arms around Steve's neck, and cranes his own for another kiss. It's small and gentle, and Steve's gaze is warm when it breaks.

"Hold your breath," Steve says. "I'm just kiddin' - tell me if it's too warm."

James laughs as Steve's words register, but there's no need to worry. He's light as a feather to Steve, so being lowered into a bath is nothing, and the water is-

James gasps when his body touches it - held like this, his ass and his nuts hit the water first and he knew they were gonna but still, some of that skin is freshly shaved and highly sensitive.

"Sorry," Steve chuckles softly, but he doesn’t sound like he means it, and it’s fine, he doesn't need to be.

The water temperature is perfect as far as James is concerned and, because Steve's arms are at his back and under his knees, Steve can lower him all the way in without - so James realizes after a moment - getting his rolled-up sleeves wet at all. He keeps going until James is sitting on the floor of the tub, the water up maybe to his waist, just a little higher than his stomach.

Steve taps the head of the bath with his thumbnail once he's sure James is situated, the water rushing off his skin as he retracts his arms.

"Lie back, sweetheart," he says, and James…

James does but it's strange, he's a little unsure of himself - usually in a bath he sits up, hugs his knees. Although, usually when he's in a bath, he's there to wash himself, not to have someone else do it for him.

It feels oddly exposing to lie back, feels as though he's baring himself in yet another way he never has before, and he looks up at Steve as his head comes to rest against the edge of the tub - the tub is cold where the water doesn't reach, and it makes his nipples harden. Plus, he almost floats, the thing is so big - it's like a personal swimming pool more than a bathtub and, when James looks at him, Steve is kneeling by the tub with his arms folded on the edge, raking his gaze over James' body. It lingers as it comes back up, and James can almost feel the weight of it, it it's so palpable. Feet, calves, knees, thighs, dick, stomach, chest-

"Hi," Steve says, low and rough, firm in a way that almost _demands_ a response, and James wets his lips.

"Hey," he says.

"Water okay for you? JARVIS calculates it based on body temperature unless we ask him otherwise."

James nods, listens to the small sounds of the water lapping at the edges of the tub as his movement makes ripples.

"I'm gonna wash your skin," Steve says, "and I'm gonna wash your hair. I'm washing your skin first so your hair doesn't spend too long wet, I don't want you catchin' cold."

Not that James will - they're in a climate-controlled apartment in the most high-tech building in America (possibly the world, although there's a lot of places James has never been) and it's warmer in here than the rest of the apartment just because of the steam. James isn't someone who's suffered through numerous illness-ridden winters in a draughty tenement, though, or had the priest called for his pneumonia, so it's not difficult to see why Steve would think that way. James can't begrudge him it, not with the history he has.

Steve keeps slipping backward, James thinks - there's an older aspect to him like this. Less modern, at least, and so it makes sense. He's called James doll, which he rarely does the rest of the time, and his Brooklyn's a little stronger. 

"Yes, Steve," James says, and Steve smiles one of those small pleased little things - a physical representation of a sort of 'just like it should be' response. 

He reaches down, picks up what turns out to be a washcloth - James was expecting a cloud loofah, or maybe like a sponge or something - and submerges the washcloth for a moment or two. He wrings it out once he takes it out of the water again, and produces the bottle of cedar scented stuff from by his leg, gets a little on the cloth. James watches his concentration focus as he rubs the cloth between his hands to work up a lather, and then he looks at James with just as much intensity. 

"Don't you worry about this," he says, waving his hand over the bubbles floating over James' hips, "I'll come to that. Gimme your right leg first."

James nods, resituates his shoulders and then does as he's asked, right knee poking up out of the water. It's as far as he gets his leg before Steve's cupping his hand at the back of James' knee, sliding his palm onto James' calf and lifting with a noise like a small waterfall as his leg comes up out of the water.

Despite the soap in the water, much to James' surprise, Steve shifts, stretches, and then presses a kiss to James' instep. James feels his mouth drop open, but Steve's already moved on, bringing the cloth up to the sole of his foot. James isn't ticklish, not really, but he finds that his toes curl anyway. Steve doesn't seem to pay that any mind, cleaning between James' toes once he's finished with the sole, and then he washes the top of James' foot, his ankles, the back of his heel, and James watches him, surprised. Bath means washing, he knows that, but somehow his brain hadn't extrapolated from that. Steve's washing his feet for him. That’s something…

James’ brain tells him it’s old before he remembers the reference - people washed feet in the _bible_ to show _humility_ and like…

It’s strange, it feels so reverent. James isn’t sure he deserves it. But the only option he’d have is to stop Steve entirely, and he knows for sure that that’s the wrong thing to do.

The cloth cools as Steve works, but it's not unpleasant. It's the same heavy textured drag that wet terrycloth always has but, with the strength, and heat, and care of Steve's hand beneath it, it's an entirely different sensation.

Steve washes James' shin, not that it really needs it, in long, slow strokes, following the movement of his hand with his own gaze the way James has seen blacksmiths sharpen swords, or jewelers set gems. He does it like James is precious, and every moment spent touching him should be meticulously calculated. James is starting to realize that that might be what this is about for Steve, and it’s a humbling thought.

Steve washes James' calf by switching hands with the cloth and holding James' ankle, washing the back of James' knee, and James watches him and the loving intensity of his concentration showing so clearly in his eyes.

He can't wash much further than James’ knee because the water level starts pretty close to there - he could do James' thigh quite a ways, but he'd have to practically pull James' leg off to do it or, at the very least, tip him up in the water. Instead, he puts James’ leg down, and holds his hands out, ready.

"Left," he says, and James does as he's told.

Steve starts over on the left leg, pressing another kiss to this instep, too. He cleans the sole of James' foot, his toes, his ankle, the heel, moves up to James shin, his calf, the back of his knee. Steve's fingers are big and firm under the back of James' foot, and his movements are slow and careful, his expression open and unhurried.

"Alright," he says eventually, his words just as slow, "right arm."

James lifts his right arm out of the water, and he watches Steve’s face as he works. Steve isn’t seeing James, he thinks, not really. It’s more like he’s working on something - like a drawing, it strikes James suddenly. This is the way he looked in their suite at the Waldorf, when he was drawing James.

He washes down from James’ shoulder, lacing his fingers with James’ fingers to extend his arm, and he’s gentler with James’ inner arm than the outside. 

James laughs when Steve lifts his arm over his head, finds that he’s blushing when Steve washes him in one long stroke from tricep, past his underarm, down his chest until the cloth hits the water, but Steve doesn’t seem concerned. He washes James' hands by kissing the palm first, and then squeezing suds into his own palm to work it over each of James’ fingers. He lowers James’ arm into the water again.

“Left,” he says, and James lifts his left arm with a gentle rush of water.

Steve has to lean over him for this, and it’s still possible to smell Steve over the scents of the soap. He gets mainly cotton and cologne - there’s an undertone to his cologne that the soap doesn’t have - but the strength James can see in him as he leans over, the way he blocks out the light, the _shink_ as his tags shift inside his shirt-

“Okay,” Steve says, as he finishes that arm, too, and he snags a kiss on his way to kneeling back down again.

There’s no sound in the room save for the sound the water makes in the tub and, when Steve sets the cloth down and immediately produces another one, the soft laugh James gives him comes back at them off the tiles.

“And for your next trick,” James says.

Steve raises an eyebrow, mouth tugging up at one corner, and he picks up the vanilla bottle this time, does the same thing as before to get the cloth foamy in his hands.

“After I wash your chest, I’m washing your face,” he says. “I’ll be pouring water over you to rinse, I don’t want to dunk you.”

“Oh,” James says, and Steve does look at him then, a question in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s okay,” James says, and Steve nods.

“A’right,” he says. 

He does as he said he would. He starts at James’ chest and shoulders, moves up to James’ neck. He washes behind James’ ears and either side of his nose. Despite trusting him implicitly, James’ lashes flutter uncontrollably when the cloth gets near his eyes, just because that’s how his eyes work, and so he closes them instead, and lets Steve clean his face.

It doesn’t need doing - none of it needs doing, James showered this morning - but that’s not the point.

“Look at me,” Steve says as he draws the cloth away, and James does.

Steve puts the cloth down and picks up what looks like a plastic cup.

“You got everything, huh?” James says, and Steve shakes his head.

“I got plans for you,” he says, and then he lifts his chin. “I’m gonna fill this and then I’m gonna rinse your face.”

James nods, and then watches Steve shuffle away on his knees to fill the cup from the faucet.

When he’s done, he stands, and James looks up at him.

Steve pulls a towel off the rack, flips it back over his shoulder, and then gets the cup in one hand as he leans over the tub, angling his body so that he can stand almost parallel to James. 

He reaches down, slides his free hand behind James’ neck, and then lifts. James follows the movement, arching his back enough that his whole upper body’s out of the water, allowing Steve to support his head. 

“Close your eyes,” Steve says.

James does.

“I want you to take three long, slow, deep breaths for me, doll, get your lungs ready.”

James wets his lips and then nods minutely, does his best to do as he’s asked. One, in for as long as he can manage, and then out. He can feel the water level moving on his skin as he takes the second. He takes the third and part of him’s apprehensive, part of him starts to panic. Steve said he’d warn, right? Steve wouldn’t waterboard him without notice-

“A’right, sugar, next one I want you to hold.”

James does, draws a long breath in and holds it.

“Let a little out, sweetheart, relax,” Steve says, and James does, lets a little air out of his lungs so that his chest isn’t stretched so tight. “Good. I’m puttin’ the cup on your forehead,” and James can feel it, the slightly cooler plastic rim lightly touching his face, maybe half an inch below his hairline. “I’ll give you three and go on zero, stop me if you’re not ready.”

James is glad Steve told him to let a little air out or his chest would be burning by now.

“A’right. Three, two, one,” Steve says, and then warm water is rushing over James’ face.

But then there’s terrycloth drying his skin almost before he registers the water, pressed lightly over his nose and mouth first.

“Breathe,” Steve says, and James can, does, blinks the water out of his lashes as he looks up. “Good,” and Steve pats the moisture off the rest of his face, too. 

He eases James back until his spine isn’t arched, until James can support himself, and lets him settle into the water again. Then he puts down the towel, and kneels back by the tub, reaching out to smooth his hand over the top of James’ head.

“Uh?” James says, a little dazed.

“Y’alright?” Steve answers, and James nods a little, looks up at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “Was weird though.”

“Mhm,” Steve answers, “and you did real good.”

He uses his hand to scoop water from the tub over James’ neck and shoulders, and James realizes all at once, without really knowing how he knows;

Steve needed this once. 

Steve’s told him stories of tin tubs and barely-warm water, of fevers so bad he couldn’t move. Someone - probably his mother, probably even Bucky Barnes - learned to bathe Steve when Steve could barely help. 

“Somebody did this for you,” he says, and Steve, who is just rocking back on his heels, nods without looking at him.

“Mhm,” he says. 

He gets up again, towering over James, retrieves the cup from where it’s floating in the water - that explains how he was able to get the towel onto James’ face so quickly - and perches on the edge of the bath.

“Now,” he says. “I’m gonna wash your hair. I’m gonna take off my clothes to do it so that I can’t get as close as I need to, and then we’ll see about the rest of you.”

James’ blood warms, and he looks up as he swallows hard.

“Yes, Steve,” he says. 

Steve nods, and begins to undress. Just like he undressed James, Steve gets going on his clothes as though it doesn’t mean a thing to do so. There’s no seduction, no slow, knowing glances, or smirks, or raised eyebrows. Steve unbuttons his shirt and strips it off his shoulders as though he were undressing alone, folding it before he puts it down on the lid of the toilet. He goes for his pants next, strips them off just as easily, and his boxers follow suit. His dick doesn’t seem to be uninterested, James can tell, but Steve’s not paying it any mind. He’s a long, lithe figure of golden skin, dappled freckles, and body hair that catches the light, darker where its thickest, and not just because its denser. 

He’s shaved his torso again, given that he was on duty, but James watches him stoop for the- which one? ah, okay - the vanilla, and then Steve stands up straight next to him and.

Okay but.

His dick is right there. And so is James’ mouth. He wets his lips.

Steve foils him though - all James has really done is _look_ at it, and Steve says,

“No,” easy as pie.

James frowns, looks up (which he has to do by looking directly upward at this point), and finds Steve looking down at him.

Steve tilts his head sideways.

“Scoot forwards,” he says, and James does. 

He’s aiming for half the length of the bath but Steve’s warm hand descends on his shoulder pretty much as soon as he’s sat up properly, and James looks back at him.

Steve Rogers is the First Avenger, was Captain America, is one of the most renowned tacticians in history and is one of the world’s foremost combat experts. To say he’s badass is an understatement but, if James didn’t already know it, he’d see if for himself when Steve steps into the bath water and then sits his actual bare ass down on the presumably-still-ice-fucking-cold lip of the tub without so much of a flinch.

“Face front,” Steve says, and James feels his eyebrows climb but does as he’s told.

He’s only actually a quarter of the way down the tub, but he can feel Steve’s toes against the outside of his ass, and Steve removes his hand with a dragging motion, so that it’s more of a caress than leaving him cold.

Steve presses something against his back, too, two points of contact.

His knees, James realizes. It’s his knees, to brace against James’ back, and then Steve’s hand appears next to him, picking up that plastic cup out of the water again.

“Tip your head back,” Steve says, and James does, looks at the ceiling. 

He can see Steve’s shoulders and the underneath of his jaw.

“Hi,” James says.

“Hi,” Steve answers, giving him a brief upside-down smile. 

Then Steve puts his hand on James’ forehead, shielding James’ eyes, and pours the cup of water into his hair.

It makes goosebumps come up on James’ skin even as the water saturates his hair and draws his head back with the weight, but it’s a good feeling, being here, knowing Steve’s taking care of him. The water moves over his skull like tiny fingers, and he suppresses a shiver.

“Cold?” Steve asks, and James shakes his head a little.

“No,” he says.

“Good.”

James hears the click of the soap bottle, and wills himself to sit still. Steve’s big palm comes up against the back of his head, and pushes gently.

“Okay,” Steve tells him, “you don’t need to put it back unless you want to, until I rinse. I’ll tell you when I rinse.”

“Okay,” James answers and then, oho, then-

Then Steve’s big, warm hands, gentle in ways you’d never guess seeing him throw the shield around and punch bad guys in the face, sink into his wet hair and-

_“Ohh,”_ James says, and Steve says,

“Mnh,” in what James belatedly realizes is a noise of amusement.

His fingertips start at the nape of James’ neck, in tiny little circles, and work upwards to the crown of his skull, pulling back against his hair. Steve doesn’t pull his hair, per se, but he twists strands around his fingers while they’re close to James’ head, tugs a little like he does when James is sucking his dick, so that it’s like pressure instead of pain.

He’s working the soap through the strands, that’s what he’s doing, but he’s making it feel amazing.

“That’s,” James says, “that’s really _good_,” and Steve doesn’t answer for a long few moments.

When he does it’s little more than a hum, and then his fingers are back on James’ skull. James can hear the crackle of the bubbles in the lather, feel the sparkling sensation of it against his scalp, but his eyes drift closed a few moments later.

Steve rubs circles at his temples, moving backwards, dragging his fingers through James’ soapy hair, and James can’t help the noise that slips out of his mouth. Steve is doing far more than he needs to, James is sure. There’s no way Steve needs to work in that much of a lather, but James isn’t about to stop him. His head does fall back a little - how can it not when Steve’s hands are right there? - but Steve just accepts it, just starts on the top of James’ head instead, fingers of one hand in his hair, the other hand like a headrest for James to give himself over to.

When Steve’s fingers leave his hair, James opens his eyes a little and watches Steve move around. He’s filling the cup with water again, curls the fingers of his supporting hand just a little, probably to get James’ attention.

“I gotta let go here, sweetheart,” he says, and James nods, tries to lift his head.

It’s harder than he anticipated just because his hair’s wet and heavy, just because his neck has turned to jelly, but he manages, lifts his head out of Steve’s hand and then shakes his head a little.

“A’right,” Steve says, and then he shields James’ eyes with one hand, and pours the water with the other.

It’s an effort to keep his head up as the water pulls it down, even when Steve starts to squeeze the moisture out.

But then, of course, just as James is thinking about it, Steve’s hand comes up to cup his skull.

“Still good?” Steve rumbles, and James looks up at him.

“Mh,” he says. “Yeah. W’you kiss me?”

“Lemme finish your hair, then I promise,” Steve says. “I don’t wanna fall over top of you.”

It’s unlikely that he would, but James won’t argue. 

Steve goes for a second lather - he only usually does his own once unless it's particularly grimy after a mission, but then Steve's is much, much shorter than his, and Steve has to employ his grooming routine about four times as frequently as James does - and does exactly the same thing as before, working the soap through James' hair at the same time he draws tingling warmth on the wake of his fingers. 

James remembers doing this for him, rubbing his fingers over Steve's skull, that evening after Amy met him, and pushing soap into his hair at his parents' house. He ought to do it again, he thinks, 'cause he knows Steve likes it, and it feels really, _really_ good.

And it's probably because his body just likes having Steve's hands on it, probably just because Steve's libido has brought James' into full throttle beside it, but all it really takes is having Steve's fingers in his soapy hair and knowing Steve's not wearing a stitch, directly behind him, for James to be half hard and hyper-aware of every movement of the water and their bodies in it.

"When are you getting in?" James says, and Steve grunts.

James tips his head back just a little, and Steve's frowning, concentrating on the process. James doesn't say anything else for a long few minutes, until Steve says,

"Rinse," and James lifts his head and waits for Steve to shield his eyes. 

Steve pours the next cup of water over his head, and James feels it weigh down his skull, feels his head move with the motions of Steve's fingers. 

"Conditioner?" Steve says, and James looks at him upside down.

"I…" he says, and then he glances aside. "Uhm. Yes Steve?"

Steve nods once, and then bends his whole body sideways, and comes up with the bottle of fancy all-natural conditioner from the floor by the bath. It's coconut, which James loves because the smell follows you around for hours after, and Steve picked it up from some fancy market thing way back in fall. 

There's more cap-clicking, and then Steve's hand appears, palm up, right next to his head.

"This right?" he says.

There's a splodge of it maybe the size of a quarter, and James nods - it's enough for him, Steve would probably need slightly less.

"Yes, Steve," he says, and Steve's hand retracts. 

Then, on James' other side, the bottle appears.

"Hold this," Steve says, and James takes it.

Steve doesn't do all of James' hair, because he's good at following instructions and James told him how hair like his needs to be conditioned, but it still feels good to have Steve working conditioner into his hair, not least because the hair's attached to him.

"How long do we leave this in?" Steve says.

"Uh," James answers, looking up at him, "a few minutes?"

"Mh," Steve answers, nodding once, and then he's putting the plastic cup back down on the floor. "A'right," he says. "Scoot forwards and crunch in."

James feels his eyes go wide, then feels the size of the grin on his face. Then he does as he's told, because he won't get what he wants otherwise.

He shifts forward, makes himself into a little ball, sitting on the floor of the tub, and then he hears Steve move, feels the water move around him, feels Steve's body heat increase and then, then-

Steve's hands are on the lip of the tub, next to James' shoulders, Steve's long legs are unfolding either side of him, and the water goes up from just over his stomach to right up under his chest.

“Oof,” Steve mutters, and James turns his head a little as Steve settles in behind him. 

“What happened?” he says.

“Water’s calculated for body temp,” Steve answers. “Yours is lower than mine.”

James chuckles, twists his head to look at Steve over his shoulder.

“Are you cold?” he says.

Steve shakes his head.

“Not for long,” he answers. 

Steve's big, warm hands slide around his waist under the water, not pulling but making sure James knows what he’s meant to do. It’s easy to lean back against Steve, back to chest, to let Steve take his weight and lay him out like this, and he turns his head against Steve’s neck as soon as he comes to rest.

~

“Mhh,” Steve says again, nuzzling at him for a moment or two, and then he starts sweeping his palms over James’ torso.

He starts at his collarbone, following the contours of James’ body down, down, all the way over his stomach-

“Put your hands on my thighs,” Steve tells him, lifting his own, and James does, James puts his hands on Steve’s massive thighs.

And then, then Steve’s hands are back, stroking up the insides of James’ thighs under the water, cupping between his legs as though it’s nothing more than a caress.

“Ah,” James breathes, and his hips shift upward just a little. 

“Uh-uh,” Steve answers. “You keep ‘em down, this is up to me.”

James makes a small noise into Steve’s skin and tries to settle - it’s difficult when he’s so aware of what he looks like, when he knows just where Steve’s hands are. Steve flexes his fingers as if to make the point, and James shuts his eyes and curls his fingers on Steve’s thighs.

Steve’s been in the actual tub with him for less than a minute, the water’s barely settled, but James knows he’s done for, like, totally done for at this point. He’s already come once earlier, excruciatingly gently, and he knows Steve’s interests revolve around making sure he does the same thing again.

His body’s underwater but Steve’s bigger than him, Steve is currently all around him, and James _could_ lift his hands, just like he could get up and leave, just like he could get out of his own cuffs when Steve puts him in them, but he won’t, it’s the last thing on his mind and Steve knows it.

“Mh,” James says, trying not to squirm - bubbles on the water probably obscure what’s going on beneath but that doesn’t mean a thing when both of Steve’s hand are right there. “Please?”

Because maybe that’ll work, maybe Steve will take pity.

~

Steve has a plan for the day. Most of it is just doing the things he wants to do, taking the strain off James the way he’d be happy to all of the time if neither of them were employed and James weren’t an actual human being with independence and autonomy. 

He wouldn’t be James if he weren’t, Steve’s well-aware this is just a fantasy. Still, it’s a fantasy in which he’s in charge.

“No,” Steve says. “You brushed your teeth,” and James goes completely still.

“Oh shit,” he says. “I did, I totally forgot,” he lifts his head, twists his body in Steve’s arms to look at him, “Steve, I-”

Steve can hear James’ voice, can hear James saying things, but it doesn’t fit with how his brain thinks it’s supposed to go, and there are a couple of ways he _could_ do this, but what happens is he takes one hand off James, out of the water, and puts it over James’ mouth.

James goes silent.

“You’ve got words,” Steve says. “If you’re not using those, you can say yes, please, and my name. Do you understand me?”

James blinks a couple times and then nods slowly. Steve lifts his hand.

“Yes,” James says, and his voice is very small.

“This isn’t punishment,” Steve tells him. It’s to help you remember how to trust that I know what’s best for you. Do you understand me?”

James wets his lips.

“Yes,” he says.

“Now,” Steve says, and he looks over James, searches his face and then lets his gaze roam for a moment or two over pale skin. “Keep,” he says clearly, “your hands,” and James’ mouth opens, “down.”

He breathes heavily for a moment, nods slowly, and settles again, his back to Steve’s chest, his hands on Steve’s thighs.

“Yes, Steve,” he says.

James lets his head rest back against Steve’s shoulder. From there, he can turn his head for a kiss if he wants one - or if Steve wants one - but he lies still. 

This is the way it’s supposed to be, the way the quiet in Steve's head wants it, the way the breath in his lungs and the length of his spine ease for having it. He lowers his head just a little, presses his mouth to James’ temple, and nods, too.

“Good,” he says, and curls his fingers around James’ cock.

James is hard already, which Steve expected, and his cock juts up out of the water, flushed pink. It’s such a sweet thing to love someone whose body shows love so easily - though Steve’s well aware the two are not synonymous - James’ whole presence radiates the kind of love Steve didn’t think he’d ever find once upon a time. Natasha has always told him that he loves too easily (although she usually says it when he’s told her something about how valuable she is as a friend, so he knows it’s most likely a deflection), and she’s not wrong, not really.

Or, at least, she’s partially right. He loves easily. He loves his friends, he loves the friends who’ve become family. He loves James, just as he loved all the people who came before him, just as part of him still loves them even now. Loving too easily suggests that it’s a detriment and he should stop, but he’s never thought of it that way. It’s true that loving the way he does has caused pain - for himself and for others, from allowing such love to dictate his actions when objectivity would have been better, all the way to plain old grief. Part of him had thought, when he was reanimated, when he learned what had happened, when he realized truly that what had happened was real and there was no way back, that it would be better to never befriend anyone again. Perhaps, he had thought, he shouldn’t give his name, his shouldn’t smile at strangers, he shouldn’t form friendships, connections, any of it. If you didn’t love, if you didn’t care - if you didn’t hold people close, you couldn’t hurt when they were taken away.

That had lasted about as long as it took to be introduced to someone kind - in the state he’d been in, he’s lucky he didn’t just fixate on Fury. (He suspects Nick would count himself equally as lucky.) 

But James? James loves with everything. James is an open book to Steve and, though he’s sure it’s not always an advantage - God knows it took Steve long enough to get a good poker face, and it’s still not that great - it’s just one of the multitude of things that Steve loves about James. 

He lies in Steve’s arms with his eyes closed and his head back, yes, because Steve asked him to but, really, it’s because he’s allowed Steve to ask. It’s a gift he’s giving Steve, and Steve knows, Steve is in awe of him really, always is. James’ hands are down because Steve asked, James’ eyes are closed, he’s quiet for now, but he leaves himself open and vulnerable. His skin flushes with arousal, his breathing and his heart pick up in anticipation. That beautiful mouth curves upward at the sides, and it’s like this all the time.

James always looks at him with love in his eyes, always reaches for him with open hands, always watches him and smiles at him and cares for him - James leans towards him with every part of himself when they embrace, pours himself into every kiss. James’ body shows his love like it was made to be shone into the sky, to be written across mountainsides. James loves him, and Steve, oh, Steve loves him right back, with all the love he has.

Things like this, the sexual - it’s strange. For a long time, Steve didn’t understand it. Then he _experienced_ it and, suddenly, those things fell into place. He can be slow and careful like this, loving and doting, and it feels like giving for himself. It feels like a gift meant for both of them. It almost, almost, feels selfish, but the way James moves even as he tries to hold himself still, the way his expressions change even while he tries to keep his eyes on Steve - it’s precious, invaluable. He shakes his head, astounded. 

All he has to do is touch, all he has to do is care, is love.

And loving James is as easy as breathing.

_“Oh,”_ James says, and his fingers tighten on Steve’s thighs just a little.

It’s not difficult for him to turn his head and ask for a kiss without words, just the same as it’s easy for Steve to oblige him. There’s a careful balance between giving James what he wants and giving James what he needs, not least because there’s so little difference. 

In fact, the only real difference Steve can think of is, really, in his own mind - what James wants is love, and pleasure, and contact. What he needs is to be shown that he deserves those things, and to be given them for as long as possible.

Steve is good at the long-term. He’s good at waiting people out, at maintaining, at outlasting. Keeping his rhythm slow and easy, keeping his movements unhurried, it’s exactly what James deserves - to have everything drawn out until nothing matters but the two of them. 

Steve kisses him when James head turns towards him, smiles against James’ mouth when he breaks away to gasp. He barely moves away at all, Steve feels the rush of air over his own lips, and he keeps right on going, a nice, slow rhythm. Today’s about taking time and taking care, and Steve’s going to do both meticulously.

He goes to kiss James again but James barely manages a brush of lips this time before he’s gasping again, a soft sound breaking in the back of his throat. His head rolls on Steve’s shoulder, his brow furrows, and his mouth works for a moment or two, almost as though he’s going to speak without knowing what he wants to say. 

“Ah, ah, ahh,” he says, barely sound at all, in time with each of Steve’s strokes, and he smooths his other hand over James’ chest and stomach and back, touches him skin to skin while James isn’t able to speak.

James isn’t still, that’s the thing - he doesn’t move on purpose, his hands stay down, but his hips shift as Steve moves his hand, his whole body seems to crunch inward with each stroke, his back arches away from Steve’s chest _just_ a little. The sound of Steve’s hand breaking the surface of the water with each stroke, the way the water feels as it laps at his skin with their movements - Steve doesn’t let up, but neither does he take it any less slowly.

James crushes his face to the side of Steve’s, moaning softly in time, and Steve just smiles, looks down the length of James’ body, squeezes the head of his dick on the upstroke just to hear James gasp in, in, in-

“Oh, oh-h-”

He mouths at Steve’s jaw because he’s uncoordinated, hands shifting on Steve’s thighs, and Steve has mercy, turns his head to kiss James back.

“Mh,” James says, “Steve,” even though the word is blurred like charcoal, smeared between their mouths, “fuck…”

“Mmmhm,” Steve answers, and the next time James’ head rolls on Steve’s shoulder, Steve presses kisses to his temple, his cheek, his throat, the top of his shoulder. 

“Ahh-ah,” James says, hissing through his teeth a moment later and, this time, one hand does come up.

As soon as his wrist knocks against Steve’s forearm, he puts it back, but Steve can feel his fingers tighten and release a few times once he does.

“Easy, sugar,” he says, “we’re gon’ be here a while.”

James draws a long, deep, shuddering breath and turns his face towards Steve’s again, shakes his head minutely.

“Ugh, _Steve,”_ he says, a rush of breath.

Steve just keeps right on going, doing what he’s doing with no intention of slowing down.


	4. Chapter 4

James has no idea how long it’s been when Steve finally speaks to him in more than gentle sounds or quiet shushing.

"How you feelin', Sweetheart?" Steve says, and James wishes sometimes that he didn't get as overwhelmed as he does, that he didn't get as choked up or wound up emotionally. "Good?"

And trust Steve to notice when James finds it hard to speak. He nods quickly, wets his lips, body rigid with want, and Steve smiles, gentle and broad with his eyes full of love. James' fingers tighten on his thighs, James turns his cheek a little more against Steve's jaw but doesn't move away, doesn’t try and stop him. 

"This all right for you?" Steve asks, and it's somewhere between perfect and torturous, slow and steady like a heartbeat, like a clock.

"Ahh," James says, his head falling back a little more, but Steve supports him. 

James could have no bones in his body and he'd still be safe in Steve's arms, in the cradle of his body.

"Breathe," Steve says, a low command, a rumbling instruction James can't help but follow - he loves orders like these.

To sleep, when his eyelids are already drooping, to come when the inevitable rush has already begun, to breathe when his body wants so desperately to _live_ in such a moment. 

"Please," James gasps, "please."

And it's not to beg, not to ask, not to participate. He doesn't need to - it's just to have a word in his mouth, just to have language he can taste on his tongue, just a reassurance - he's still with Steve, Steve's still with him, James still wants what's happening and it won't change, whether he asks it to or not.

"It's alright," Steve tells him, and James says it again, mouth slack against the onslaught of pleasure.

"Please," he murmurs, and Steve nods, kisses his cheek, kisses his temple. 

James isn't cold - he can't be with the cradle of Steve's hips so warm, with the water still so warm around them, with Steve's arms so strong against him, can't be with the pleasure Steve's pushing through him - even the fingers of Steve's fist are hot. 

Steve doesn't tighten his fingers, doesn't speed up his motions, he just strokes, and strokes, and strokes, as though they've all the time in the world. 

James doesn't know how long they've been here, doesn't know how long Steve's loose, wet fingers have been stroking him, doesn't know how long Steve's voice has been soft and near-silent in their bathroom, doesn't know how long Steve's been holding him in this endless moment, or how long he's been teetering on the edge of something white hot and scalpel-sharp.

"This all right for you?" he rumbles, and James' toes tingle, his inner thighs feel hot, his chest feels exposed and his nipples ache.

_"Steve," _ he says, arches his back to try and stretch the flesh, "Steve, Steve," and Steve doesn't answer except to keep doing what he's doing at exactly the same pace he's been doing it since they started.

When he lifts his head again, shakes it a little to clear his bangs out of his eyes, James just stares and stares down at himself - he knows what Steve sees. Steve sees the same thing he always sees - James lying open to him, pliant, nerves thrumming under Steve's attentions.

He watches Steve’s hand move on his cock, watches his thick fingers move in and out of the water - James is having the kind of experience he can't really describe to anyone else. His whole existence is quiet right now, Steve's soft voice and gentle movements having pulled him down into a calm he can't find elsewhere. Time's slowed around him, his blood's turned thick and sluggish in his veins, the air has turned to honey in his lungs and his skin feels alive _everywhere_ and there, with a beatific smile and the light catching blond strands in a halo that's never suited anyone more, is the love of James' life right there with him.

"Steve," he says, and Steve's brow furrows but he doesn't frown.

"Shh, shh, Sweetheart, whatever you need. I'm right here."

James feels fit to turn inside out, feels as though his skin might slough from his bones, as though the white of the lights around them might just seep into his body and consume him.

He feels his head go back , feels himself bare his teeth, feels his fingers tighten and his toes curl.

"Steve," he says, desperate and, in the split-second before his eyes close, there's Steve, smiling down at him so close he can barely focus, watching his face as orgasm sweeps his ability to think right off the face of the earth.

~

When he comes back to himself after a moment or two that feel like a year or five, his ears are not ringing and his hands work, his heart still beats and his breaths still come, and it feels like he's been in Steve's arms forever, feels like they've only just begun.

"How're you feelin', sweetheart?" Steve says again, and James nods, lifts his chin, opens his mouth when Steve leans down to kiss him. 

It's possibly the slowest orgasm he's ever had, unfurling like silk in a warm breeze, dispersing like ink in water, and it leaves James feeling like a he's spent a long afternoon in summer sunshine, as though he's stopped between sleep and wakefulness and never needs to rouse.

"Mmmmh," he says, and he smiles languidly because the words are formable but too much effort.

Steve chuckles above him, around him, rich and smooth like melted chocolate, and James slides backwards into the things Steve gives him when Steve decides he's rested long enough.

***

Getting out of the bath isn’t so elegant, so slow. James has to scoot forwards again, and then Steve has to get out of the bath without falling flat on his face. He manages, but only just.

He dries off with one of the big towels - his hair’s not wet so there’s no need to dry it - and he dresses in his jeans and his shirt as soon as they won’t stick to him.

The next thing he does is fill the cup with fresh water from the faucet, and he takes it over to James, cups the back of James’ head in his hand.

“Eyes closed, sweetheart,” he says, and he waits for James to comply before he rinses James’ hair one last time. 

He pulls the plug on the bath next, reaching over James, arm in almost up to the point that his sleeve is rolled to, and he wipes James down with one of the washcloths as the water drains.

When he’s satisfied, he puts it down, dropping it in the tub - he’ll deal with it later.

“Arms,” he says as he stands, dropping another towel on the floor, and James looks at him blearily, holds them up.

Wet skin slips, and the last thing Steve wants to do is drop him - he picks up another towel and opens it out, leaning into the tub with it to wrap it around James. 

“Up,” he says softly, and then he lifts James out of the tub to set him on his feet.

It’s easy, it’s effortless, and he holds onto James until James seems alright to stand by himself, wrapped in the towel.

“C’mere,” Steve says, walking him to the toilet so he can sit down on the lid. “I’m gonna dry your hair a little.” 

James sits down, wrapped in his towel, and looks up at Steve.

“Hmm,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve answers, tilting James’ head up with a hand under his chin. 

He bends down to kiss him, just a little thing, and then telegraphs his next move clearly - which is draping a towel over James’ head.

He doesn’t rub the moisture out of James’ hair with his usual vigor today - today’s not about vigor. Instead, he does what he’s seen Natasha do with hers, and squeezes the moisture from each strand using the towel for a glove. 

He’ll never get it fully dry like this, of course, but he can get it to a point where James isn’t dripping, and then wrap him up instead. The ambient temperature can be adjusted if James somehow gets cold, he doesn’t need to be dressed, not for the foreseeable future. 

“Do you need the bathroom?” he says.

“Hmm? Mhhno,” James answers from under the towel, and Steve smiles.

“Hungry?”

“M’not hungry,” James answers, and Steve nods, unveils James blinking into the light of the bathroom, and uses the towel to stroke his hair back so he can look at his face.

James seems pretty happy - a little fuzzy around the edges maybe, but in a good way. He’s okay, and Steve’s pretty please to see how much James is enjoying things so far. It makes heat curl in the middle of his chest, makes his spine feel stronger and his shoulders feel wider.

“Lean forward,” Steve says, and James does, almost without question - Steve has to put an arm out to stop him going too far. 

Then, once James is leaning forward, Steve puts the towel over his head again and twists it, wraps it around to make a wrap out of it, tucking the end in at the nape of James’ neck.

“Okay?” he says, and James nods.

“Yeah,” he says, still wrapped in his towel. “Thanks.”

Steve smiles at him, cups James’ cheek for a moment to stroke his thumb over James’ cheekbone. James’ eyes are half closed, his smile is gentle and satisfied. Steve nods a little, mostly to himself, and then stands up again.

“We’re going to the living room,” Steve tells him

~

He stoops beside James and angles himself so that it’s easy to pick him up again, so that James is in his arms and on his way out of the bathroom by the time he realizes he’s not still sitting down.

His arms are strong at James’ back and the back of his knees, and they go through the bedroom, down the hall, into the main room, with those long, smooth strides of his. Steve crosses to the bigger couch with him and lowers him carefully, his head furthest from the door, the way he likes. If James weren’t in love with Steve, and if Steve didn’t have an eidetic memory, James would be wondering how the hell he could do everything so perfectly. He makes sure that there’s a pile of cushions under James’ towel-covered head - enough that he can see the room but not enough to bend his spine or his neck awkwardly - and a thick pillow under his knees, too. He makes sure that James’ limbs are arranged comfortably - James wonders if it has to do with his training as a first responder, how he can be so perfectly capable, how unerringly able to put James in a position that’s as comfortable as it is practical.

“Don’t move,” Steve says, not a threat but something close, not a promise but something just as strong, and he brushes his lips over James’ forehead. 

And then he straightens, and moves away, footsteps silent on the carpet. James doesn’t know what Steve’s plan is, doesn’t know why Steve wants him here, but it’s easy to stay where he’s put and wonder about which way Steve will preempt him next, easier still to enjoy the anticipation of finding out. 

There’s silence in the room for a few long moments, while Steve does whatever Steve is doing and, when Steve comes back, he has towels with him, held in one hand, a few bottles in the other. He stands by the couch and puts the things on the coffee table - much like the shaving paraphernalia got put on the nightstand - and then walks all the way around the table to go to the other end of the couch. This must be what he was aiming to do, must be part of his plan, because he’d correct it if he wanted it differently, but James is baffled. He’s not sure why they’re here instead of on the bed.

“Your choice,” Steve says, levelly, sitting down by James’ feet - he lifts James’ legs to do it, actually, just cups his huge, warm hands under James’ heels and lifts them so that he can settle on the couch with James’ feet in his lap. “You can watch a program or queue up something on Netflix, I don’t mind as long as it’s not '<del>Super</del>**human**'.” 

James frowns, mouth already open.

“Why?” he says without thinking, and Steve runs his knuckles up the sole of James’ foot because it tickles, just to make James flinch, and then fixes James with a gaze so intense James immediately knows the answer anyway.

“You mean besides ‘because I said so’?” Steve answers, jaw perhaps a little tighter than it is usually. “Because I want you thinking about me, not Lea or Ethan or Krisis or any of those other guys you watch. Offer rescinded. Jarvis, please play ‘Life that Glows’.”

He reaches out for one of the towels as Jarvis confirms and obliges, and lifts James’ feet again to get the towel between them and his legs. James can feel himself trying not to smile but he can’t help it.

“Are you _jealous?”_ he says, and the corner of Steve’s mouth twitches.

“Don’t make me fetch the gag, darling,” he answers impassively, without looking, unscrewing the top off the bottle.

James is supposed to be watching the TV projection, but he can’t, not like this. Watching Steve’s long, dexterous fingers unscrew the lid of the bottle, watching him cup his palm and tip out some of the liquid, watching him coat his hands in whatever it is, James can’t look away. 

_’As dusk gives way to twilight, the encroaching darkness is lit by life.’_

James loves this documentary, knows it backwards, he was maybe ten when it came out and his fascination with glow in the dark shit only grew from there. He loves his weather documentaries too, has plenty of favorites of those, but it’s becoming background noise while watching Steve takes up his full attention. To start with, Steve seems to be moisturizing his own hands or something, with some kind of…All James can really think of is ‘serum.’ It's hilarious given the circumstances, and Steve’s perfectly entitled to do it, but he doesn’t usually choose to do it in the middle of roleplay (or whatever this is).

He wants to ask what Steve’s doing, he wants to know what’s coming, but he doesn’t, too - and he knows that’s the point. Anything Steve does is up to Steve, and anything he does could lead to anything. He could paint James’ toenails or fuck James’ mouth.

Steve could do anything he wants and then do anything to James and, even though Steve probably won’t give him a makeover and then make him cry with his dick, James is well aware that he could if he wanted to, and _that’s_ why he doesn’t ask. It wouldn’t be anticipation if he knew what was next - besides which, he’s not sure Steve was totally kidding about the gag, not least because he knows how much James likes it. 

Steve picks up the same bottle he just set down, gets more of the oil in his palm and puts the bottle back, and James just looks at him from where he’s laid out on the sofa. 

_’Scientists are finding ever more strange and wonderful glowing lifeforms all around the world,’_ the documentary continues, and Steve turns his head and looks at the images on the screen.

James doesn’t need to look, he knows what’s going on, but Steve doesn’t seem to be rubbing the oil into his palms this time. He’s more sort of transferring it, instead, and James looks at the side of his face, the streak of gray at his temple, the strength in his furrowed brow and the turn of his lips.

James loves looking at him. There’s no other way to put it - he’s beautiful. He’s gorgeous and, even looking at the television, even pretending not to be paying attention to James, even sitting there with oil in his hands and his head turned away, James can’t help but be astounded by him. The tendons in his neck, the sharpness of his collar bone where it’s visible past the collar of his shirt, the single strand of hair that hangs down over his forehead instead of following the rest of his hairstyle…

Steve looks at him then as though he could tell James was watching - he probably could, he was probably staring at James out of the corner of his eye. But turns his head and then he's staing at James without blinking, without changing his expression. 

“Watch your documentary,” he says, and James bites his lip and turns his head to do as he’s told. 

_‘In recent years, scientists have begun to find answers to those questions.’_

Steve touches his foot a moment later, and James flinches and looks back at him. Steve is looking straight at him, and James turns his head away again because Steve’s literally just told him to look the other way. 

“Are we going to have a problem?” Steve says, and his voice sounds amicable.

James can picture him, head tilted, eyes open, pretending James isn’t skating on thin ice. James wets his lips and tries to even his breathing, and pays attention to the pretty lights on the screen.

“No,” he says on a breath, thrilled by it. “No problem.”

Steve nods, James can see the movement out the corner of his eye. 

“Good,” he says. 

James startles when Steve wraps slick hands around his foot, and almost, _almost_ looks back. But he doesn’t - manages to stop himself just in time, and curls his fingers against the couch cushion instead, watching the projection. 

_’However astonishing these images look, they are all real.’_

Steve holds James’ left foot in his hand, cradling it atop his thigh, and James is watching bioluminescence blossom outward on a viper fish while the documentary’s run-in finishes and trying to ignore how warm Steve’s hands are, how big his fingers. 

It doesn’t last long, not really - it’s a good thing that James can picture all of those things with his eyes closed because he loses his ability to concentrate just as soon as Steve starts moving his hands. 

James does not consider his feet an erogenous zone. He doesn’t doubt Steve would suck his toes in a heartbeat if he indicated otherwise but, in James’ day-to-day life, his feet are those things he walks on that ache sometimes, not whatever the hell Steve is making his left foot feel right now.

Maybe it’s Steve’s hands, or the knowledge that this is a completely unnecessary thing for James - he hasn’t been on his feet all day in weeks, spends his whole work day sitting down - and Steve's doing it anyway. Maybe it’s that he’s naked under the towel and Steve is doing his Voice Of Authority thing. Whatever it is, James hasn’t really ever had a foot massage before and it feels _amazing_.

Steve starts slow, his hands just smoothing skin and following contours. He draws his palms over James’ instep, one after the other, and then around his foot to stroke the arch of his foot. He’s not a professional, but he knows James well enough to know what he’ll enjoy - and pressure where a light touch would be ticklish, strength where tension is knitted into the tendons, is a pretty good place to start.

“Mmh,” James says, and lets his eyes close for a moment.

He opens his eyes again because Steve has told him to watch his documentary and he doesn’t doubt Steve will know if he isn’t, and he tries not to think about the fact that he’s lying on Steve’s couch (their couch, actually, right? He’s lying on their couch) with nothing on but a towel, and his feet in Steve’s lap like some debauched roman emperor.

He chuckles - _Emperor Iacomos_ springs to mind - and Steve says,

“Flashcodes funny to you?” 

James wasn’t even aware the documentary was at that point.

“Emperor Iacomos,” he says instead, and Steve hums softly, starting to push his knuckle into the sole of James’ foot.

James wonders if Steve’s as turned on by the memory as he is - Emperor Iacomos had a tough time sitting down for a while, and it’s something James definitely plans revisiting at some point. Maybe not too soon, considering how Steve was this morning, but soon enough. 

“Emperor Iacomos is gonna get his usual in a second, if he ain’t careful,” Steve says.

“I wondered whether you’d be thinkin’ ‘bout that.”

“Explain to me why I wouldn’t be thinkin’ ‘bout it,” he says, pushing because he knows he can. “That pretty backside ‘a yours all red, huh, nice and warmed up for me, you tell me. _You’re_ thinkin’ ‘bout it, ain’t’cha?”

James wets his lips, nods. He trusts that Steve’s watching him for an answer.

“Well try thinkin’ ‘bout that documentary instead,” Steve says, and James bites his lip to hide his smile.

James isn’t sure how tension manifests - people say things like ‘knots’ or ‘grains’ but James has never really given a proper massage and doesn’t really know what to feel for - but he’s pretty sure it must be melting right out of him now. 

It doesn’t hurt, not really. It’s a little less intense than pressing on an old bruise but it’s just as satisfying (that doesn’t make him weird, right?) and he becomes aware that he’s…sinking?

Or, not sinking, just, 

“Uhn,” he says, as Steve gets to a particularly achy spot about halfway down his foot.

Just not quite as held-up, he thinks. His spine isn’t as straight, his shoulders aren’t as stiff, and he tries to really think about relaxing, tries to make himself ease the tension in his spine and in his limbs. It isn’t easy - he only knows he was doing it now he’s trying to stop doing it - but it works little by little. He feels the cool fabric of the pillows across a little more of his neck and shoulders, the angle of his legs changes a little.

“There you are,” Steve says, low and soft, and James finds that, once he’s started, it easier to continue.

“Mh,” he says, cranes his neck a little as he sinks and then wiggles his shoulders a little, and it is different, it is a change. 

He watches the screen through half-closed eyes and, even though the words buzz in his ears, it’s Steve’s hands that take up most of his attention. Steve’s still pushing his knuckle into the sole of James’ foot, his other hand holding James’ foot steady, and it does feel good - better than James would have thought if Steve had asked.

He does the whole of the sole of James’ foot, too, from the balls of his feet to his heels, slow, deep movements that James would swear should hurt. They don’t, though, couldn’t be further from it.

_’It’s rather like morse code,’_ and James thinks fireflies are sweet, always has. 

He’d like to go somewhere with Steve that has fireflies, to sit out in a back yard at dusk with him in muggy air, snuggling close as it turns colder, as the stars come out.

Steve moves his hands so that he can gets his thumbs onto the soles of James’ feet, and he starts to make firm little circles, and James wets his lips as he takes a breath, tries not to make too much noise. It’s not out of his control - not yet anyhow - and he doesn’t need to make a show of it. Steve knows it feels good, otherwise he wouldn’t do it.

James arches his back a little, turns his head on the pillows, and Steve’s thumbs rub circles into the ball of his foot, Steve’s fingers slide between his toes. It’s so weird but it feels so…

It’s so _nice_, is what it is, it’s a luxury that he wouldn’t have thought of. He’s thought about shoulder rubs, sure - because Steve’s hands are big and he wants them on his neck or in his hair, because he likes the idea of sitting still for something helpful and relaxing only to have Steve’s hands replace his fingers on his throat, to have the gentle touches wander lower and the air between them warm when Steve shifts closer. He likes shoulder rubs, and he’s pretty sure a shoulder rub from Steve would lead to sex. Plus, he wants to give Steve a massage, mainly because he wants to spend a long, self-indulgent afternoon with his oily hands on Steve’s musculature, just the thought of it is enough to speed his heartbeat a little. But it hadn’t occurred to him that something so nonsexual could feel so enjoyable, especially on one of his feet. 

It’s not even both feet!

And it’s starting to feel really weird, in a really good kind of way - his foot is starting to feel like it doesn’t have any bones in it, like his skin is full of little lights (don’t even ask him what that second part means, that’s just how it feels) and, when Steve starts pushing his thumb into James’ instep, he can’t help making a noise then.

“Oh,” he says, and it’s only little, he can’t even see Steve react, but the TV show is getting a little fuzzy around the edges, and James’ knuckles are aching. 

He frowns. When he looks down at them, it’s because they’re white, because he’s still gripping the towel, still trying to ground himself on the couch. He wets his lips and goes back to his documentary, and unwinds his fingers as best he can. Steve doesn’t say anything to that, either, but James can imagine him being pleased about it. And, for a second, he thinks maybe that’s really presumptuous. Maybe he’s projecting or whatever the word for it is - maybe he ought to be less arrogant.

Except, and this is the huge part, he knows it’s true. He knows that Steve will be pleased he eased off with his hands, he knows Steve will be happy he’s enjoying this. He doesn’t need to ask, or hear a confirmation, and that, okay, _that_ must be exactly what Steve’s doing. Just the way Steve knows what James will like, when James is hungry, what James thinks of certain things, James is certain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Steve will be happy he let go of the towel.

Happy he went back to his TV show. Happy that he’s getting to do this with James because Steve loves treating the people he cares about, being in control, and James, James knows him, too.

“Love you,” James tells him. “That feels so good.”

Steve seems to grow a few inches then and, whether it’s to take a deep breath or because of what James says, James doesn’t know (he does, he does know) but he can see it happen. Steve doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t slow his movements, but his whole frame expands, and James’ heart swells with it. 

“Mmhhyou too,” Steve answers, the words a blur of sound.

He doesn’t usually mumble, it’s an interesting change. And he’s not spaced out, he doesn’t do that. But it is a different mindset entirely.

After a lovely minute or so where Steve warms James’ achilles tendon by following it with the tips of firm but careful fingers, he starts rubbing James’ foot with his whole hand, and James tips his head back a little, goosebumps coming up on the back of his neck from the cool fabric under it.

_And, for years,_ the projection says, _fungus bioluminescence, like much other living light, was written off as a beautiful byproduct of evolution with no function._

James watches timelapse footage of mushrooms glowing in the dark as they emerge from the soil of a forest floor, and smiles as Steve’s fingers leave his one foot, and Steve reaches out for the oil again, presumably to start on the other.

~

Care is quiet, and it’s one of the things Steve likes about it. They’ve had similar discussions, of course they have - if he were truly allowed to go right ahead and do whatever he wanted…

They wouldn’t end up like this every day. He wouldn’t insist that James never use his own feet or wear clothes or feed himself - that’s fantasy. Those are indulgences for himself that he both knows for impracticality and dislikes for their lack of autonomy.

He loves James and, from the way James is reacting, knows him pretty well. It’s not difficult to do these things for him, and Steve likes to joke that he’d keep James like this but he’d never assume they could do this all the time - he’d hate it if someone did that to him and he knows James would hate it just as much. It’d be as much a prison as any other place that dictated movement, and that’s pretty much the last thing he wants for James.

But James has given him this because he loves him - given him a day or so to do as he pleases to please James, because James knows that’s what he wants. Finding him on the floor had been a surprise but hearing him say those things, hearing him say things that implied he wanted his decisions made _for_ him today, seeing him look up with clear eyes and an open expression and suddenly being aware that James wanted to give him this?

Yeah, that was. Really somethin’, for sure. 

Steve can amass little bits of knowledge to save for proverbial rainy days - a certain way of making hot chocolate, for example, or maybe an item of clothing, a piece of jewelry. He can remember things about eating and drinking preferences, think of places to go for a night out or things to watch for a night in. But he’s all too aware of the person he used to be - all too aware of the man who lost everything and then pushed a lot of people away. 

This is a chance to forget about most of the rest of the world for a while. He doesn’t need to think about extraterrestrials or international organizations, he doesn’t need to worry about what they’re having for dinner or what the traffic will be like over the bridge. All he’s got to worry about is James, and James is right here.

Steve can’t lose him, can’t forget him, can’t drop off the face of the earth without him, can’t even really get the afternoon wrong at all - he’s got enough information, and this is enough of a novelty for James, that the whole idea of it will be enough to sustain them both until they go to bed. Although, Steve knows, it’s hard to sleep when you’ve spent your day doing nothing, so maybe they’ll go for a walk.

Maybe he’ll come up with some other way to wear James out. 

Regardless of how impractical a life lived like this would be, for a special afternoon, it’s going pretty well. And Steve never feels more settled than when the people he loves are in a safe place and feeling good.

~

When Steve’s finished on James’ feet, he wipes them down and rubs lotion in. It’s stuff that smells like honey and almond, and James gets a little aroused by the smell, has ever since he hit puberty - which Steve knows. God, James had forgotten he’d even told him (come on, when your only lube is hand lotion, you learn to associate the smell). But it’s still nice, calm in a way James only ever really sees from Steve when he’s focused. Steve doesn’t seem to see the rest of the room, doesn’t notice the documentary, he just sits and tends to James’ feet until he’s rubbed the lotion in. 

By then, the show’s talking about dinoflagellate blooms on Tazmanian beaches, and James shakes his head slowly. He’d love to see it one day - that one he might mention to Steve, ‘cause he can’t imagine having the equipment to find it himself - and, though the knowledge and technology to look at these things improves all the time, James still loves this show beyond measure.

Steve moves around a little, James can feel him, and he’s been so distracted by his show, he’s been not paying attention to his own movements for so long, that it’s instinct to turn his head and look at Steve. Is Steve leaving? Is that what he’s doing?

Steve, who is holding one of James’ feet in one hand and stroking the excess moisture from his foot with a towel in the other, lifts his head slowly and looks at James. 

There isn’t a question in his eyes because he doesn’t look like he’s that connected. Instead he looks mildly surprised James has moved (although that could just be his ‘why aren’t you watching your show’ face. James doesn’t think so though).

His eyes narrow then, his brows draw together, and he shakes his head a little, looks down as he presses his lips together.

James can almost hear him, _No, no, don’t worry,_ as he goes back to stroking James’ feet with the terrycloth.

He isn’t going anywhere, and James isn’t exactly surprised to feel pleased about it. More sort of…pleasantly proven right.

***

By the time Life That Glows is winding down, James is in a semi-doze, his feet in Steve’s lap, one of Steve’s hands over his ankle. The temperature increase means James isn’t cold, but it also means Steve’s skin is even hotter than usual, and his palm is a brand on James’ skin.

It’s not discomfort, not at all - just that James is incredibly aware of how little he’s wearing and how big and warm Steve is. Steve could reach his stomach from here, Steve could reach his knees, Steve could slide his hand from James’ ankle right the way up his leg, under the towel. If Steve wanted to.

Steve doesn’t do that. 

Steve lifts James’ feet from his lap so that he can ease himself forward on the couch. He doesn’t get up, just moves forward, and then he twists his body so that he can stretch himself out, so that he can lay himself alongside James, weight supported on one hand, and come to rest beside him.

“Hmm,” he says, a nods minutely, using his other hand to brush James’ hair back off his forehead. 

It’s like being in a cocoon, or a specially designed pod, or one of those capsule hotels or something - James doesn’t really have a frame or reference for it, he’s just aware that, when Steve’s hand slides over his stomach and onto his waist, it’s natural to turn towards him. Steve’s other hand, now that he’s not leaning on it, eases between him and the couch, and supports his back.

Lying face to face makes him quiet, makes him careful - there’s a kind of silence that hangs around them today, and he doesn’t want to break it too completely. 

“Shut your eyes,” Steve says, and James does.

They ache at the corners, his head feels too big for them, but the towel is soft around his head and the pillow is soft under it. 

“Sleep,” Steve says, and he says it with a slow, purposeful slide downward of his hand, from James’ back, down, all the way to the back of his knee.

Then he slides his palm back again until his hand is on James’ ass, and he _squeezes_, kissing James one more time before he hitches him close and holds him steady.

“Sleep.”

Like breathing when his body wants to live, like allowing a rush of pleasure that’s already begun, another of those simple orders that James can’t help but to follow.

***


	5. Chapter 5

Dinner is freezer fare. 

Steve only has hot pockets and pizza rolls, but they’ll do for an evening meal, and, he said, 'at least they’re not sandwiches again.'

He puts James back on the counter while he prepares them, gives him the bread crusts from lunch to snack on, and says something unfairly arousing like, “I’ll put a plug in you next time,” but, the thing is, James likes to eat and he likes to have sex, but he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t like both at once.

Trying to eat with his head while the other half of his body is otherwise occupied sounds like one of those things that would make neither of the enjoyable things very pleasant, and would probably make him entirely overly self-conscious. But Steve seems to understand that - it’s the ‘threat’ more than anything that James enjoys. And, okay, James _also_ likes watching Steve wander around in jeans and a button down, hair nicely styled and graying at the temples, tag chain shining, skin all smooth and golden, making the most basic freezer stuff he could possibly make.

James loves it. He loves that Steve can make him beef wellington or comfort mac’n’cheese, can make cookie trees and sushi, or can just shove a tray of pizza rolls into the oven. 

“I love you,” James says. “I love that you can feed me anything. You know? That you don’t have to impress me.”

“You’re telling me I’m not making an effort - I’m kidding,” Steve answers, hand out to placate him before he can get worked up about it. “I’m glad you’re comfortable whatever level of cuisine I’m presenting but I’d happily make a tray of hors d’oeuvres-” he stops, laughs quietly “-sorry, a tray of ‘em though if that’s what you wanted.”

James nods, beams at him.

“Like I said,” he answers. “Next time.” And Steve glances at him over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. “What’s funny?”

“Bucky used to call ‘em horses’ doofers just piss off Jacques,” Steve answers, chuckling again. “Ohh, man. We all spoke a little but Jacques _hated_ our accents.”

James cocks his head.

“Were they bad?”

Steve laughs openly this time.

“No!” he says. _“Mine_ was terrible, and Dugan couldn’t get his mouth ‘round the ‘r’s, but everybody else? Monty had all’a that classy private learnin,’ Jim already spoke three languages when we started so he learned fast, Gabe spoke three, too, though different ones to Jim a’course, and Bucky just-” he waves a hand “-picked it up like he’d been doin’ it his whole life. Charm everyone from here to Broo- Uh, from Europe to Brooklyn.”

James watches him, watches him smile to himself and shake his head, clearly stumble onto a different memory and chuckle about that, too. He doesn’t get sad, and James is glad for it. He was starting to worry he’d have somehow brought them down again but Steve seems happy remembering.

“Your accent still terrible?” James asks.

_“I_ think so,” Steve answers. “It certainly won’t pass for French French.”

“French French,” James says, and Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m told I could pass for sounding like I’m speaking French-Canadian French, but only if that French Canadian moved to the US a long time ago and forgot how to talk.”

James snorts, and Steve flashes him a grin. James thinks he might he exaggerating, but he’s enjoying the story anyhow.

“So horses' doofers,” Steve says. “You got any preferences?”

And James just looks at him. The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the way his torso tapers to his waist. The length of the steps he takes across the kitchen with that gymnast’s waltz of his, the way his hair sits over the crown of his skull, the shape of his cheek when he turns his head away, the breadth of his hands.

“Nah,” James says. “I trust you to know what I want.”

And Steve slows, just for a moment, head turning, before he goes back to what he was doing.

~

They eat together on the couch, with Steve across the couch and James between his legs, back to chest like he was in the bath. There is, in James’ lap, a plate full of pizza rolls and hot pockets, and James is not allowed to touch any of them.

“Open,” Steve says, and James does, obediently, so that Steve can feed him the flavors of his after-school-childhood while they watch another documentary - this time it’s about deep, deep-sea sea-creatures. 

James’ hands are on Steve’s thighs again so that he remembers not to lift them, and every mouthful goes to Steve first. James thought at first that they were sharing, that Steve was eating half of what was on the plate, but it’s not the case -Steve’s pressing each mouthful to his lips, first, to make sure it’s not going to burn James’ mouth. Eventually, James figures, the things on the plate will be cool enough that he doesn’t have to check every single one, but for now he’s making sure with each. And it wouldn’t surprise James if he continued to do so right the way until they’re finished. 

James watches a rainbowy comb jellyfish undulate its way across the screen. 

“That’s the single gayest invertebrate I’ve ever fuckin’ seen,” Steve says, and James nearly snorts a pizza roll up his nose and then coughs into a laugh.

Steve laughs too - slow and rich and deep.

“You did that on purpose,” James says, and Steve strokes one hand down James’ torso.

“Of course,” he says. 

And James frowns at the projection of the documentary. Doing things on purpose is a game two people can play, but he’s willing to wait until he’s cleared his plate (until Steve has cleared his plate? Hm. He’ll worry about semantics some other time) before he starts. 

He’s not really paying too much attention to the documentary - it’s another of his favorites - and finds his mind drifting instead. He wants to do something like this for Steve, although he’ll have to do it differently. 

He wants to give Steve a massage, because he wants to put oil on Steve’s skin with his hands and touch him all over. He wants to wash Steve’s hair because he liked being in his parent’s bathroom with Steve in the tub, and he wants to feed Steve sushi, and he wants to tie Steve up and do nice things to him, maybe in front of a mirror.

Steve doesn’t refuse him much but James thinks that might be one of them. 

He’ll have to wait and see. 

~

After his first course, Steve sits him forward a little and brushes his hair, pulling it back into a very small braid, which it’s now long enough to do.

“I din’ know y’could braid,” James mumbles, and he can hear the smile in Steve’s voice when he answers, big, warm fingers smoothing strands of hair into the plait.

“I got little sisters all over this joint,” he says, because it’s true - Wanda, Natasha, Kamala, America, even Jessica once, about which which Steve is very honored, and she’s more like a big sister with that attitude, “plus Bucky had all them little’ns ‘round our ankles, Mrs B was glad for the extra hands even if it _was_ me.”

“Even?” James says, and Steve huffs a laugh. “She…she didn’t like you?”

“Oh, I…” He pauses, sighs heavily, his breath moving the small wispy hairs on the back of James’ neck. “I was ‘that Rogers boy’ for a long time. She didn’t dislike me but she didn’t always approve, if you know what I mean.”

~

“Of _you?”_ James asks, because that’s hard to believe, Steve’s lovely.

“Yeah, listen, I had my criminal record expunged when they made me a propaganda piece,” Steve answers. “All that pure-as-the-driven bullshit, not a bit of it. Far’s she was concerned, I’m the one kept dragging her science-fair-attending, pulp-fiction-reading, clean-cut baby boy into bar brawls and back-alley fights. It was…unfair of me.”

James frowns, twists his head enough to see Steve.

_“You?”_ he says, and Steve chuckles.

“Yeah, me. Got that boy into far more trouble’n I was worth, t’be sure,” and that, James wonders, that was Irish, was that Steve’s mother in there? “He…” and there’s another sigh, oh no, Steve’s getting sad, this isn’t what James wanted. “He was far too good to me, and I put myself and my ideals ahead of him far too many times.”

James frowns harder.

“Why?” he says. “I mean, what?”

“If I get into a fight I can’t finish,” Steve answers, “ ‘cause somebody’s catcallin’ some dame or badmouthin’ the troops with a war widow present, it don’t much matter what the damn thing was about if I can’t teach the lesson, now does it?”

James doesn’t get it.

“Your intentions were good,” he says, because that’s what matters, right? It’s the thought that counts?

“Ah-huh, and you know what’s paved with good intentions?”

James feels his mouth drop open.

“Steve,” he says, and Steve shakes his head, strokes his huge palm down from the crown of James’ head, over the braid, onto his shoulder.

“It was the right thing to do,” Steve said. “Mouthin’ off right back, tryin’ to tell ‘em, stickin’ up for the little guy. Even though _I was_ the little guy. It was the right thing to do. But just the same as it was the right thing to do to teach ‘em a lesson, it wasn’t fair to ask Bucky to fight my fights for me.”

James chews his lip.

“He wanted to help you,” he says, and Steve nods.

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t’a got in all’a them fights if yours truly hadn’t started ‘em, so,” Steve says. “They were good fights to have if I had to get in fights, but Bucky’s Ma was right. I didn’t put him first nearly as much as I should have, even once I knew he loved me back. I told you before, I was different then. Angry. Always said I had nothin’ to prove but that’s as much of a joke as me tryin’ to take on a six foot bully by myself-”

“Steve,” James says again, and he turns in Steve’s arms this time, pulls himself up onto his knees and gets his hands on Steve’s shoulders, “Steve, stop, stop-”

Steve does, looks bemused.

“Steve,” James says, and Steve tilts his head, smiles ruefully.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I ain’t beatin’ myself up, kid, I’m statin’ fact, okay? An’ I’ve come a long way since then, it’s alright.”

James frowns at him, and Steve lifts a hand to his face.

“Come here,” he says, “gimme kiss,” and kisses James softly. “You remember I said, ‘bout my ex, it was both of us? My fault and her fault, and she was right about me?”

James nods slowly.

“I needed help for a lot longer than help was available. A lot of my generation did. I’m lucky - I lived long enough to _get_ help, from people who taught me it was okay to need it. But let me ask you a question, kid, if I wasn’t me, yeah? Picture somebody you like, think of Amy, right?”

“Yeah?” James says, and Steve nods.

“Now imagine every time you guys went out - Halloween, birthdays, celebrating promotions - every time you left her alone to go to the bathroom or to grab a drink, every time you arranged to meet her somewhere, she’d disappear, and you’d find her trying to punch somebody’s lights out in a back alley. Huh?”

James shakes his head.

“Yeah, but if it was because some guy-”

“I didn’t say she had to be in the wrong, just that it was always the same. You brought somebody to meet her, you took her out to a movie, you went for a drink after work. And every time, you had to finish a fight for her. Without even knowin’ how it started. Without knowing who you was punchin’. Amy calls you a friend and then she drags you through the mud ‘cause she pulls you down in it when she can’t get out of it herself. Wouldn’t you get tired of her shit?”

James doesn’t like the fact that he sees where Steve’s coming from.

“I,” he says, but Steve holds up a hand.

“Now imagine it’s me,” Steve says. “That you love me and you need me and you worry about me, and I take you out to nice places. Imagine that time I took you to the Waldorf, or that river cruise. Remember I met you in the park?”

James nods, looks at Steve’s chin ‘cause it’s hard to look at his face.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Imagine if you got outta the car expecting me, and you found me face down in the dirt instead w'some hooligan instead. I bet you’d get tired of it - I would have if I’d been him even though he never did.”

James turns his head away and Steve turns it back.

“Could you trust me, James?” he says. “Could you ever trust me out of your sight? Worse, could you _ever_ trust that one day I wouldn’t turn around and do the same thing to you, too?”

James hunches his shoulders in, shakes his head.

“Stop,” he says. “I get it but I don’t want to talk about this any more. Not today.”

And Steve sits back a little, gets a little less intense. He sighs again.

“Aright,” he says, “I pulled us down and I’m sorry. Least you know I can put your hair up if you ever need me to, right?”

James looks at him, nods slowly.

“Right.”

~

Steve brings dessert to the couch, too. James sees napkins, soft sweets - mochi and mooncake - and warm drinks, instead of the fruit and gatorade and candybars he was half-expecting, and is amazed by him, looks up at Steve with what he knows is awe in his eyes. 

Steve puts everything down on the coffee table, and then slides his arm under James’ back. James tries not to sit up, tries to let Steve do it for him - he’s pretty sure he mostly manages it, too - and then Steve’s moving around behind him, the cushions dipping and then, then Steve’s long legs are unfolding either side of him again, and James is being pulled back against what he expects to be Steve’s chest but what turns out to be a pillow, too. 

He flails a little as Steve draws him backward, feeling off-balance, but Steve doesn’t let him fall. Steve would never let him fall.

Instead, Steve’s arm circles his waist, and then, once James is settled, he takes a napkin and tugs it over James’ hips, presumably to stop crumbs getting in places crumbs should not be, just in case the towel wasn’t protection enough.

“You okay to take your hat off again?” Steve says, and James nods. He’s reaching up for it when Steve does it for him, chuckles to himself.

“Sorry,” he says, but Steve doesn’t seem concerned. 

James doesn’t see where he puts the towel but it doesn’t matter. Steve reaches out to the coffee table, and James watches as he pulls apart the first of the sweets. He must have cut them with one of the good knives - Steve has— _They_ have regular knives and good knives, and the good knives are so good you can’t even tell they’ve made the cut unless you know it’s there. Which James didn’t.

Steve goes for the mooncake first, pulls a quarter of it towards himself and then brings it to James’ mouth and that, somehow, has James flushing all over again. He has to wet his lips before he can open them, and then he tilts his chin forward, opens his mouth. Steve’s fingers are gentle as they bring it to his lips, and James thinks for a moment that he’ll need to eat the whole piece, but Steve holds it still and waits for James to take a bite. 

“Mh,” James says, licks his lips for the crumbs and catches the pad of one of Steve’s fingers.

Steve doesn’t do anything about it the first time, waits for James to finish his mouthful. It’s soft and sweet and spreads over his tongue and pushes into his soft palate, grainy and mushy. It’s thick and cloying but it’s what he wants, especially in weather like this, after a day like this - another thing Steve can just intuit. The second bite is just the same, except that Steve brushes his fingers along James’ lips deliberately this time, and James thinks about sucking them in because he knows what it would look like and the image by itself is a turn-on even now, so soon after what Steve’s just given him. He doesn’t, because he presumes Steve will let him know if that’s what he wants. Or, James supposes, if he thinks that’s what James wants. 

It’s a funny thing to think about, to second-guess, and then to realize he doesn’t need to second-guess. All he needs to do is let himself feel and let himself want, and Steve will figure out the rest.

The second quarter, of the mooncake, another two bites, is thick in his mouth, and Steve reaches for the drink next - hot chocolate, because of course it is. How Steve knows he needs to drink is baffling - perhaps he can hear a difference in James’ breathing - but it feels like magic, to have everything he needs right in front of him just as he realizes he needs it. 

“ESP?” James says, just in case.

Steve’s voice rolls through him, dark and soft, a rumble in his sternum through the back of his body.

“Hm,” it’s amusement, a brief, leisurely sound of satisfaction, “I know you.”

James takes the offered drink, a few sips that Steve allows him, with a pause for two or three moments for a breath. James gets three - one to be sure he likes it, one to quench his thirst, one for taste, rich and sweet, and then it’s gone, and Steve is reaching for the mochi instead. 

James opens his mouth for it - those pieces are smaller, he can take the whole mouthful at once - and his eyes flutter closed as he does, Steve’s other hand splayed over his naked stomach, thumb moving gently.

“Are _you_ eating?” James says, and Steve draws a huge breath that moves James, too.

“I will be, later,” he answers, his words slow and measured and dark with a quality that’s somehow commanding and affectionate all at once. “Let me worry ‘bout the both of us.”

James takes the next bite without question, and goes to lick his lips when some of the powder falls from the outside, but catches Steve’s finger again with the tip of his tongue, and Steve pauses. 

“James,” he says, and James feels his eyes close for a moment.

Okay then. 

Steve feeds him the sweets, gives him the hot chocolate, and James sinks into an odd kind of stupor under it. It’s still a little difficult to let Steve do it actually - every time Steve’s hands bring the food towards him, it’s almost instinctive to take it. He manages for perhaps five minutes before he lifts one hand without thinking, and Steve doesn’t even _nearly_ let him do it. 

Instead, he draws the morsel away - not sharply, not like a reprimand, just enough to remind James that he shouldn’t be doing what he’s attempting to do, and James feels his cheeks heat, bites his lip for a moment.

“Sorry,” he whispers, finds his voice rough and fights the urge to shrink back into Steve.

Steve brings it back after a few moments, when he’s sure James has remembered what he’s doing - or, more accurately, not-doing - with his hands, and James feels the back of his neck heat, too, feels his insides shiver a little with it. 

“Hands down,” Steve says, not quite a rebuke but James can feel it simmering there under the surface of what he says.

It’s strange - it’s not genuine anger. It’s in no way any kind of scolding, because, really, James hasn’t done anything wrong. But Steve’s voice, the edge in it, the strength that’s only just concealed by the love, the authority hiding just under the gentleness.

“You’re,” James says, fingers curling over Steve’s kneecaps overwhelmed by it a little. “You’re, I love you, St- Steve, it’s-”

“Breathe,” Steve answers, his tone just the same. 

James does, shakes his head and swallows hard.

“I will but you’re, _God_ you’re good at this, you’re so sexy-”

James feels the fabric of the pillow shift, feels Steve’s arm tighten around him, Steve’s mouth is suddenly at his ear.

“Eat,” he says, quiet but clear, pronouncing the ‘t’ enough that it raises goosebumps down the sides of his neck and makes it difficult to open his mouth.

But he does as he’s told - couldn’t not at this point - lets Steve feed him the strange, textured mouthful, and does his best to ignore how close Steve’s mouth is to his neck, how warm Steve’s body and the pillow are behind him. 

Steve’s hand is hot and huge on his stomach, splayed almost across the breadth of James’ torso. Steve folds the napkin together, like closing a book, to catch any crumbs, and then sets it on the table.

James is not subtle. Subtlety won’t get him anywhere with Steve like this, because Steve’s reading every bit of body language and then doing what he wants anyway. Steve’s right, of course - what James really wants is for Steve to do whatever he likes, and he can trust that Steve will do so in a way he enjoys. 

Food, attention, gentle words and careful touches, Steve’s been taking care of him all day, but there’s one thing James wants that Steve hasn’t given him yet. Maybe Steve thinks it’s not appropriate today - that today is for a different kind of touch, or pleasure, or any of those, but if Steve’s so adept at reading body language, James is going to make it easy for him.

While Steve’s fishing for another napkin with one hand, the fingers of his other are still hovering in front of James’ face, and James opens his mouth and presses his tongue down the full length of Steve’s index finger, closing his lips around the base, right at the knuckle, before he hollows his cheeks and pulls back. He doesn’t pull off completely either - instead, he gets as far as the last knuckle and then eases the suction of his tongue just enough to start again, bobbing his head forward and then doing it over. 

Steve has gone very, very still.

James manages a good four or five repetitions before Steve takes his hand away completely, and James is just about to complain when Steve folds his other fingers in and holds up his hand again - this time with the index and middle extended. Two fingers isn’t as big as his dick but it’ll do.

James opens his mouth and gets to work, presses his tongue against Steve’s fingers and then swirls it over them when they’re too dry in his mouth, but then Steve’s pushing his fingers into James’ mouth and drawing them back again. He only goes as far as his second knuckles on the in-stroke, in case his huge fingers are too long for James (which is ridiculous considering the length James can take on a regular basis) and the friction of Steve’s fingerprints start to tingle at the corners of James’ mouth.

“Mmh,” James says, closing his eyes, sucking against the skin, pushing his tongue between Steve’s fingers, making a real effort to make Steve wish it was more than his hands getting the VIP treatment. 

And then, just as James thinks he might have him Steve moves again, withdraws his hand and replaces his finger with his thumb instead, pad down to hold James’ tongue down inside his mouth, his wet index finger along James’ jaw, the others curled beneath his chin.

“This is you doing as you’re told?” Steve’s voice says, a bone-deep vibration through James’ back.

James swallows around Steve’s thumb, sucks hard and rubs his tongue against the pad, and then arches his back, shifts his ass back-

Steve’s other hand comes up, sweeps up James’ chest and settles over his throat - not squeezing, but pressure enough to keep him still.

“Try again,” Steve says. “What do you want?”

“I want your dick,” James answers, his voice rough and smeared by Steve’s thumb in his mouth. “I want you to fuck my throat-”

“That so?” Steve answers, and he takes his thumb out of James’ mouth.

“Please,” James insists, and the hand around his throat _lifts_, tips his chin up until he’s looking at the ceiling, eases him back until he’s lying against Steve’s chest.

James wants to do this to him, he realizes suddenly - he wants to lay Steve out naked and touch him all over, wants to hold him and pleasure him and -

“What’d I say to you?” Steve answers, his mouth right next to James’ ear.

James sucks his lower lip into his mouth, fingers tightening on Steve’s thighs as the urge to lift his hands and grab for Steve rises.

“Smart-mouth,” Steve says, “inattention to instructions. And _you’re_ telling _me_ what you _want?”_

James doesn’t dare move, and Steve’s lips brush his ear.

“I _know_ what you _need.”_

James doesn’t quite suppress a shiver.

"Now do you really," Steve says, and he's keeping his voice right down at the lower end of the range - pitch and volume, so James has to strain to hear him over the ringing in his ears, "really expect me to do what you're asking me on the day you specifically asked me not to? Or have you had a change of heart."

"I'm not gettin' that dick, am I?" James says, and Steve makes a soft noise through his nose.

"You get what I deem fit to give you," Steve answers, and James knows what's next, he knows what's coming, but Steve's so good at it that he could do it every time, Steve's such a powerful presence that he could literally just walk in and command James and James would do it (that's why he's a Commander, right?) but what he does instead is the same thing he did this afternoon. 

~

Steve doesn’t need anything from James, not now. Not today. It’s there, his body’s aroused, but it’s distant, like it’s behind a wall. First and foremost is James, and it’s not because Steve doesn’t want him - it’s a different kind of desire today. James is gorgeous, is beautiful, but the ache in Steve’s body today sits in his chest and eases when James is happy.

Sex can wait - in a manner of speaking.

He opens James' towel like he's unwrapping a gift, and says,

"You keep your hands down until I say otherwise, you take what I give you unless you need to tap out, and maybe you get a treat after. Understand me?"

"Yeah," James gasps, fingers digging into Steve's thighs already, thick denim under his fingertips where there's nothing left between himself and the rest of the room.

And then, because Steve's like this, because Steve's way better at this than any human being has the right to be and James is luckier than anyone in the universe, Steve opens his fingers around James' cock and holds his hand there without touching, says,

"Yes _what?"_

And James' body is bowstring tight already, halfway to thrusting into a touch Steve has yet to give.

"Sir," James says, breathless, "Steve? Oh, help-"

"How 'bout I decide for you?" Steve says, flexes his fingers, and every one of James' muscles tighten, his dick sways upward toward his belly. "I got a name, use it."

"Steve please," James says, and then he shakes his head, stomach concaving, "Steve _please_-"

Steve's hand is gone a moment later, out of the way and, just as James is watching him draw it back, Steve moves behind him and then-

"Oh!" James says, louder than he meant - Steve's other hand, the sneaky bastard, and he's licked it, and he grips tight with it.

James' body shoves into it, hips snapping up, but Steve doesn't let him. Steve keeps his grip tight but moves with him so all he gets it a grip, not a stroke, and James whines.

"You can't keep those hips down, I'll do it for you," Steve says, and James knows that what he means is he'll hold him down, but it sounds so much like Steve means he'll lash him to the floor or something, chain him to the wall.

Steve does as he said he would a moment later, other hand coming in to settle on James' hip, and what that means is that both of Steve's arms are over James', and both of James' hands are on Steve's thighs, so James has little - if any - leverage at all, just like in the tub, except he doesn’t have a layer of water to pretend he’s hidden. James swallows hard, mouth gone dry now his breathing's picked up.

"What's the plan, Cap?" he says.

"That's two," Steve says, "I already told you what to call me."

"What?" James says. "What are you-"

"Three," Steve answers, literally holding James by the dick right now, "do you want to keep pushing me?" 

"But, I," James says, nervous-

"Alright-"

"No!" James says. "No, I-" he has to swallow hard again, this time it's anticipation crawling up his throat. "I'm sorry, Steve, I'm sorry, I'll be-" all the blood that isn't in his dick is in his face. "I'll be good, I'll be good I promise-"

"Ahuh," Steve answers. "That I'll believe when I see."

And then he moves his hand - it's a damp drag because he's licked his palm and they've nothing else for lube, not yet, but he makes it slow and James makes an effort to just relax, to let himself sink into Steve - Steve's got him pretty much cradled completely, he's not going anywhere, Steve'll take care of him - while Steve starts to stroke him, nice and slow, fingers tight.

"Uh," he says, the sound catching in the back of his throat, and he tips his head back against Steve's shoulder and looks at the side of his face as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. 

He has to breathe with his mouth open, so he presses his face to Steve's skin and breathes him in. He smells of warm dough and soap and clean sweat and cotton, and James tries to roll his hips up because it feels good but Steve doesn't let him. He gets maybe a half inch of movement and then Steve's grip on his hip is like iron, though Steve's hand on his cock followed anyway, and the message is clear.

James isn't getting a thing that Steve doesn't give him, just like he said.

"Awh," James says, and he strokes his palms over Steve's thighs, half to feel him, half because his palms are sweating, and he clenches his ass because his hips _want to move_ but he can be good, he promised, he said he would, he can be good for Steve.

Steve jacks him slow, tight, and James can't spread his legs because they're bracketed by Steve's thighs, can't arch his back because the shape of Steve's torso has already done it for him. He wants to strain against Steve's touch but he can't, he hasn't got the room, he hasn't got the strength, not against Steve. Steve let him do it in the bath, he realizes, let him writhe and arch, but he isn’t letting him now.

He just has to lie where he is and let Steve give him the pleasure - _administer_ it. 

"Oh, please," he breathes, because he knows it won't make a blind bit of difference to Steve, knows it doesn't matter at all to beg and plead if Steve's plan doesn't match what he wants. 

Steve doesn't answer, doesn't change his rhythm - just like this afternoon, he'll draw time out like taffy again, James knows he will. 

"Jarvis, can you black us out, gimme the stars, bit'a weather, some of the _lampyridae_, maybe?"

_"Certainly, Sir,"_ Jarvis answers, and everything goes dark as Steve thanks him.

And then there, above and around them, is the starriest sky James has ever seen, there are lights on the edge of his vision, thunder on the edge of his hearing.

"Oh my God," he groans, he'll never be able to look at the milky way without getting hard again, "it's fucking gorgeous-"

"What a coincidence," Steve says, and James twists in Steve's embrace as much as he can, pleasure humming hot under his skin.

Crickets, he can hear crickets too, and another light catches his eye.

"Fireflies?" he says, bites his lip, yeah they are, _lampyridae_, right, little firefly holograms flashing in and out of his perception.

If it were cooler in here, if it smelled of grass instead of food and fabric, James would think he were outside, or in a dream - the projections glow so much it looks like magic.

"Uhn, fuck," he whispers, can't help it, and Steve just keeps his rhythm constant. 

This, James thinks, must be how he manages stakeouts, how he deals with black ops and lying in wait, how he handles being made to wait in the back of jets or trucks - his patience is ridiculous, his timekeeping impeccable.

James is nowhere near coming but it's carefully calculated to be that way.

He drops his head back against Steve's shoulder again, didn't know he'd lifted it, and takes a deep breath to try and offset the restlessness of not being able to move. Steve lets go of his hip for a moment and strokes up James' torso with the same speed as he's stroking his dick, catches James' nipple on a shield callous to make him flinch, and strokes his hand back down.

"You're tense," Steve says, and James doesn't mean to make the petulant noise he makes, but there it is.

Steve turns his head just a little, rubs his cheek against James' temple.

"Ohh," James answers, curling his fingers on the denim over Steve's thighs, nails rasping over the fabric.

Steve doesn't speed up, but James can feel the precome welling up at the tip of his dick, can feel Steve slick his palm with it on purpose. Where his skin was drying out, there's damp dragging again, and it's maddening even for as little time as it's been going on.

"You're gonna tell me," Steve says, "when you're gonna come. You're gonna tell me, and I'm gonna make you, do you understand?"

"Yes, Steve," James groans, scrabbling at Steve's kneecaps. _"Oh,_ yes, Steve-"

"And if I tell you not to," Steve says, and James means to make a petulant sound this time. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes Steve," James says, and doesn't care how miserable he sounds about it. 

"You're damn right," Steve answers. 

James loves him like this, just a little austere, just a little dangerous.

“Steve, Steve,” he says, but he tries to let his body go lax again - it won’t make a difference if he tenses up and he’ll just get tired faster but damn- “ugh, fuck,” it’s not an easy thing to do.

Steve starts kissing his neck and the top of his shoulder, free hand stroking over his chest and his stomach. He gets James’ earlobe in his mouth and sucks against it until James fingernails dig in, and then he’s lifting James’ head with a hand under his chin, turning James’ head-

Fuck yeah, James’ll kiss him, fuck yeah, and he opens his mouth to Steve’s, moans at him so Steve can swallow the sound.

And then, without any warning whatsoever, Steve tightens his fingers so hard it’s near painful, and speeds up to fast James doesn’t even know what’s happening.

“God, _God!”_ James gasps, his hips try to snap up, his back tries to arch, but Steve holds him down. 

This, this isn’t calm or slow or, this, oh-

“Oh, fuck, fuck, Steve-” he gasps hugely, pleasure lancing up into his stomach “-Steve!”

Steve’s legs move, Steve lifts his legs, pulls his feet inward, and puts them down inside of James’ legs, effectively locking them in place - he can’t pull his legs in, he can’t push them out, Steve’s arm around his waist keeps his body down, James is going to shatter into a million pieces with the stress of it and it feels _so good_-

“Tell me,” Steve says, and James curls his fingers so hard on denim that he’d have to worry about his fingernails if he didn’t keep them trimmed.

“Fuck,” he says, because the last thing he wants is to tell Steve, “fuck, it’s, I’m- Yeah, I’m gonna-”

Steve stops, and and it’s like James’ whole body tries to fold inward around his dick, like every part of him wants to shrink back in a desperate attempt to push his dick forward, get just a little more out of Steve.

It won’t work, of course it won’t - Steve didn’t just stop, he lifted his hand away completely, James hasn’t got anything to thrust up into. But James has to lie there, gasping, his dick hard and his hands in claws on Steve’s legs, until Steve decides he’s waited long enough. 

“Mmh,” Steve says, and he draws both hands up over James’ stomach, up over his chest, rubs his fingers over James’ nipples - James is doing this to him, God, Steve can just wait, wait ‘til Steve sees about turnabout and fair play-

“Oh, fuh,” James gasps the next time Steve’s hand sweep downwards - for some reason he thinks it’s funny to squeeze the head of James’ dick.

James lifts his head and looks down at it, desperate, and Steve angles it so he can see, so he can watch Steve squeeze precome from the tip. He flops his head back again - Steve’s shoulder can take it - and groans. He knows he sounds pathetic, he doesn’t care.

“That’s one, sweetheart,” Steve says, and James frowns at the ceiling.

“Aw, come on,” he groans, and Steve presses a kiss to his cheekbone.

“Sure,” he says, and-

_“Shhhit!”_ James says - Steve doesn’t build up to it this time, fingers tight, rhythm fast. 

James’ whole body jerks forward - not that he can go anywhere, he’s stopped by the strength of Steve’s arms - and then the only thing he can really do is stare at his own dick while Steve strokes him off fast enough to stop him breathing.

“O- A- Ah, _ah!”_

“You tell me,” Steve says, his voice low and steady as he works James’ cock, and he didn’t leave long enough, he didn’t wait, James hasn’t wound back down from where Steve wound him up.

“Oh,” James says, and it’s more of a whine, he slides his hands down to grab the backs of Steve’s knees because he’s not sure he can keep his hands down otherwise. “Oh, oh please, _please_-”

“Tell me,” Steve reiterates.

James fails, hard, lifts both his hands even though he knows he shouldn’t, and it’s only that Steve’s forearms stop him that reminds him he’s fucked up.

“Oh shit,” he breathes, “oh shit, I’m soh- ‘m sorry Steve-”

“You only got one thing to worry about,” Steve says, and he doesn’t sound pleased - James knows it’s part of the act - but James is about to fuck it up anyway-

“I’m co-” he says, and then twists as much as he can, “I’m co- _Uhn!”_

And then he is, all over Steve’s fist and his own stomach, orgasm hitting him like a punch to the gut. It throws his upper body forward and he’s right there, his eyes are open, he’s looking at his dick as it happens, watches himself come, watches it spill over Steve’s fingers and then get all over his dick when Steve jerks him through it.

It gets on his lower stomach, some gets up by his bellybutton, and James is trying to get the breath to admit his mistake, trying to apologize, when he realizes Steve’s not reprimanding him.

Instead, he’s saying,

_“There_ you are,” very quietly, more like a growl, through his teeth like he spoke to James this morning.

James just gasps, helpless, shakes his head as he stares at Steve’s hand where it’s slowing on his dick. He’s got no idea what’s happening, what the goal is, until Steve nuzzles the side of his face when he’s trying to get his breath back, mouths along James’ jaw, his throat.

“Nh- Ah, Steve?” he gasps, turns his head to meet Steve’s mouth with his own. “Steve, I-”

Steve kisses him, softly, fingers lax around his dick, arm tight across his stomach.

“That’s two,” Steve says when they part, and James frowns, tilts his head back enough to look at him.

“What?” he breathes. “Two what?”

And then, _then_ James next problem is that he’s severely underestimated how much trouble he’s in, because it turns out two means two-of-whatever-I-goddamn-feel-like-providing, which is the _whole point_ but he wasn’t expecting-

“Oh,” he says, _“oh!”_

That’s too much - Steve starts over, starts jerking his dick and James wasn’t even going soft yet, James’ dick is still-

He hisses through his teeth - it’s pleasure, but it’s raw, sharp like a too-loud noise, bright like too much sunlight, it’s too much on his senses immediately, and he shakes his head.

“Ohh!” he says, but Steve doesn’t let up.

James can’t keep his hips down, it’s a futile effort. He can’t keep his head back-

“No!” he says, but Steve says,

“Words or nothin’,” and James knew that, thank fuck Steve remembered that, they already talked about it which is fuckin’ great ‘cause he can’t come up with a coherent conversation now.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling at Steve’s grip.

Each time Steve’s fingers pass over the head of his dick it’s like sparks behind his eyes, like- God, how the hell does he describe how sandpaper would feel if it felt good?

It’s stripping his nerves raw, and he can’t deal with it - it’s that simple.

“Ohmygod,” he gasps, “h-ohmyg-”

His back arches away from Steve, his head goes back, and he can feel how screwed up his face is. When his hands lock up, it’s on Steve’s legs, and every stroke of Steve’s hand is a jolt to his whole nervous system.

Steve goes too fast for James to breathe between strokes, too strong for James to manage anything except the things his body’s doing for him and, for as long as he can, for as long as he can manage, he holds himself rigid, he tries to get the breath in, but it doesn’t work, it _can’t_ work, it’s all too much and he-

“Oh,” he can’t, “oh, Steve,” his body takes over for him.

He shakes his head, he flexes his fingers, he tries to kick but he can’t, Steve’s locked him down.

His chest aches with trying to breathe in and out, and his dick feels like Steve’s fingers are electrified, and he can hear the noises he’s making, the whining, whimpering sounds he can’t hold back-

He grabs for Steve’s wrist and whines and Steve-

Steve’s other hand moves, plucks James’ hand off his active wrist like James isn’t even holding on, and then snatches up James’ other hand when it comes close. 

Then Steve pins his hands to his chest and keeps on going, and James’ ears are going to pop, his blood is going to boil, he’s breathing so fast he’s not even sure it’s working.

“Ah-hha, Steve,” he says, “Steve, Steve_Steve-”_

He doesn’t make any noise at all when he comes this time - he can’t. He can’t get the air for it, he can’t move enough to get away. It’s seconds before his lungs will work, mouth fallen open, and then he _keens_ with it, his whole body rocking, his hips twisting, his shoulders shaking.

It makes his spine snap him forwards, makes his stomach crunch up so hard it hurts, and he keens again, barely spilling anything over Steve’s fingers.

Steve keeps going, longer than is fair, longer than James can take, he’s going to ascend out of his body if he’s not shown mercy soon, and he shakes his head, tugs with both wrists against the grip of Steve’s other hand.

“Stop!” he says. “Stop, stop-” and Steve does, sort of.

He doesn’t totally because James hasn’t told him to properly, but he starts to taper off so that James gets a few seconds of respite before his body locks up with an aftershock, then a few more before it happens again.

By the third one, he’s gasping huge lungfuls of air and shaking, and Steve’s sucking his earlobe again, scraping his teeth over James’ jaw.

“Hmm,” he says, and James looks at Steve’s fingers where they’re circled around his dick, another jolt as Steve squeezes the head of it.

“Ha-_ugh,”_ James says, and he sort of gets his mouth over Steve’s, but he’s not really sure it can be called a kiss.

Steve presumably wipes his hand before he starts touching James, because his hand is not covered in James’ come when he strokes it up James’ stomach. He lets go of James’ wrists with his other hand, too, and James’ arms kind of just flop about for a moment or two before he realizes, hey, he can touch now, right?

~

James is sweating, which is perfectly understandable, and gasping, and shuddering a little. When Steve frees James’ hands from where he’d pinned them to his chest, one drops immediately, and Steve can feel it moving. 

He takes it in his own because contact is something James craves after strenuous sexual exercise, and James’ fingers tighten around his before his other hand comes up to the back of Steve’s head as they kiss. 

Steve doesn’t need his head steadying, but James definitely needs an anchor - he’s gentle enough about it, too, although that might be a lack of strength in his hands.

James makes shaky little noises into Steve’s mouth while Steve strokes his chest and stomach, keeping the warmth in his skin now his body’s not working quite so hard.

“How you feel?” Steve asks, and James just holds his open mouth against Steve’s skin, still making those noises.

Steve gives him a few seconds to try for a verbal answer, but he seems to be a little beyond it.

“Shave and a haircut, baby,” he says and James draws a long, slow breath before he says,

“Ah-hah.”

Steve considers it close enough, and he nods, close to James, brushes his lips over James’ just so he’s got the proximity.

“Okay, baby,” he says, still stroking James’ chest. “Why’on’t you close those eyes for a couple minutes, ‘uh?” 

James’ gaze tracks around the holograms in the room - the little fireflies, the milky way - before it returns to Steve’s own, and he nods - Steve feels him more than he sees him, damp hair shifting over his shoulder.

“Ah,” James says, but it’s quiet and breathless and James’ eyes are already closing even though he's already slept.

Steve cleans him up best he can like this - he’ll clean him properly later - and folds the towel back inward to cover him. Then he signs,

_‘J-A-R-V-I-S,’_ and waits for the corresponding light in the display to tell him Jarvis is listening. _‘Hot. Five. Up.’_

The waiting little orb in front of him becomes letters.

_‘Ambient temperature increase - 5° Fahrenheit.’_

Steve signs,

_‘Thank you,’_ and watches the letters swim to form,

_‘You are most welcome, Sir,’_ before they dissipate.

James might not sleep for long but he deserves to rest. Once he’s up, Steve will talk to him about what to do with the evening, given that James has spent half a day being a kept man. He’ll probably want to stretch his legs, and he might want something better to eat than pizza rolls. 

Still, for now, Steve knows he’s happy, and safe, and that’s all Steve really ever wants for James anyway.

***

They go swimming, because they can turn the lights out and swim in the dark given the time of year.

James’ limbs are still a little tired, but he’s happy in the water. Steve convinces him to swim naked (although he doesn’t need much convincing) and then they go to shower together. The game might be over, but washing each other is always nice, and James doesn’t need to be spending hours supporting his own weight when Steve’s right there.

“I liked the bath,” James says, and Steve smiles as he towels James’ hair for the second time today. “Maybe…”

And Steve waits a few moments. James’ idea doesn’t seem to be forthcoming, so he says, 

“Maybe?”

And then James shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head.

“Might be nice to just,” he says. “You know. Snuggle in. The, uh.”

“You wanna just cuddle in the bath, we can do that,” Steve says. “Keep the water warm, maybe don’t need any soap.”

“Yeah,” James says. “Not…Not now, but. Yeah.”

“Mhm,” Steve nods, still getting water out of James’ hair. “That’s fine. Better than chlorine, right?”

James nods too.

Steve wraps his head in another towel.

“What do you wanna do with the evening?” he says, and James sucks his lower lip into his mouth.

“I mean,” he says, raising one eyebrow as he fights a smile.

Oh.

Right.

“Uh,” Steve says, and James’ eyebrow slips back down.

“Uh, I don’t…” he says. _“Have_ to, i-if you don’t wanna-”

“Uh,” Steve says. “It’s…It’s not that I don’t want to it’s just…Uhm. It’s a different frame of mind. You know? It’s. Different.”

James is really fighting a smile now and he nods slowly.

“You can force yourself to accept a blowjob,” he says. “If you have to.”

“Right,” Steve nods, absolutely not having to force anything right now - he hasn't been thinking about it, it's been simmering quietly below his skin, but it's all coming right back up to the surface with that look in James' eyes. “It’s a tough job but somebody’s gotta do it.”

“It’s a _blow_job,” James says. “And _I_ wanna do it.”

Steve huffs a laugh - James’ jokes are as bad as his own.

“That was terrible,” he says. “I must be rubbin’ off-” James opens his mouth. “No, don’t, I already know, 'you _wish_ I was rubbin’ off on you,' I got it.”

“That’s so sweet,” James says. “How did you know?”

“It’s a dick, not a bunch’a flowers, honey,” Steve says, and James sits forward and presses his mouth to Steve’s lower stomach once, twice, curling his fingers around Steve’s towel to tug it open.

The touch is soft but it makes his abs tighten, makes his breath hitch. 

“You’re lucky I can’t think of any flower puns,” James says, and Steve looks down at him and tries to steady his breathing, while James finds something a lot less hilarious to do with his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact about this fic - I had written most of it when I figured out what I didn’t like about it, and what I didn’t like was how repetitive it was. They were going backwards and forwards between rooms, doing the same things over and over in an order that made no sense, and so I stepped back and took a look at it. Literally, they were going back and forth to the living room and kitchen and bedroom so much that none of it fit as a fic at all. So _hopefully_ this order is a little more readable for you, as it’s certainly much less annoying in my opinion.
> 
> Also, **go watch Life that Glows.**
> 
> Here is [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) if you'd like to know the dates of the occurrences in this fic up to part 10, and here is a [a link to the next part of the timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/cb64da10fd7e3bf9ece90992c80a6c7f/tumblr_pnkd4q2uSH1s2056to1_500.png) from part 11 to 21.


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